AND    (>'     1    .... 

POEMS 


THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


OF 


OVER   THE    RIVER 


OTHER    POEMS 


BY 


MRS.   N.  A.   W.    (PRIEST)    WAKEFIELD 


BOSTON 
LEE    AND    SHEPARD,    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    T.    D1LLINGHAM 

I883 


COPYRIGHT,  1882, 
BY   S.    B.    PRIEST. 


Ail  rights  reserved. 


PREFATORY  NOTE. 


THE  reader  will  kindly  allow  a  few  moments  by  way  of 
introduction  to  this  volume  of  poems.  It  comes  not  de 
manding  attention  and  challenging  fame,  but  shrinkingly 
yielding  to  the  solicitation  of  friends.  Mrs.  S.  B.  Priest, 
the  mother  of  the  author,  has  cherished  the  purpose  of 
giving  her  daughter's  writings  to  the  press  for  several 
years,  as  she  has  always  felt  a  warrantable  pride  in  these 
productions.  This  purpose  has  been  stimulated  by  the 
frequent  request  of  relatives  and  other  friends,  far  and 
near,  that  they  might  have  an  opportunity  of  owning  a 
collection  of  the  poetical  works  of  "  Nancy  Priest  "  in  the 
form  of  a  printed  volume.  So  large  a  number  have  sig 
nified  their  intention  to  take  one  or  more  copies,  that  the 
mother  feels  warranted  in  making  this  venture,  hoping 
that  the  expense  of  publishing  may  at  least  be  reim 
bursed  by  the  sale  of  the  volume.  The  writer  of  this 
note,  by  earnest  request,  has  been  induced  to  undertake 
the  task  of  arranging  the  papers,  and  preparing  a  brief 


UBUIT 


4  PREFATORY    NOTE. 

memoir  of  the  author,  though  sincerely  desiring  that  the 
work  might  be  placed  in  more  competent  hands. 

If  the  fame  of  Mrs.  Wakefield  had  been  the  chief 
object  in  this  publication,  the  number  of  the  pieces 
would  have  been  considerably  less.  Only  a  few  of  these 
fugitive  verses  will  become  classics  and  survive  the  fash 
ion  of  the  year,  though  very  few  have  been  admitted 
which  are  unworthy  of  reprint.  But  it  is  true  that  the 
collections  of  our  popular  poets  contain  many  titles  which 
are  short-lived,  though  pretty,  elegant  and  interesting. 
However,  being  composed  for  an  occasion,  or  springing 
from  the  pressure  of  current  events,  they  are  not  made 
for  all  time,  or  even  for  the  next  generation.  But  there 
are  some  specimens  of  poetry  in  this  collection  which 
bear  the  stamp  of  genius,  and  have  already  found  their 
appropriate  place  in  the  great  repositories  of  selected 
poetical  inspiration. 

The  best  known  of  this  class  is  entitled  "  Over  the 
River,"  and  has  been  read  with  tearful  eyes  and  admir 
ing  taste  by  uncounted  thousands  in  our  own  and  other 
lands.  It  is  many  years  since  the  words  had  been  set  to 
music  by  six  or  eight  different  composers.  From  the 
nature  of  its  subject,  it  appeals  to  the  universal  heart  of 
mankind,  while  its  form  and  language  are  the  perfect  vehi 
cle  of  the  sentiment.  One  cannot  conceive  that  any 
thing  can  make  it  less  popular  a  hundred  years  hence 


PREFATORY    NOTE.  5 

than  it  is  to-day.  Though  it  cannot  compare  with 
Gray's  "  Elegy  "  in  finished  elegance  of  expression,  yet 
it  has  a  music,  a  rhythm,  a  pathos  which  is  unsurpassed. 
Its  consoling  power  has  been  tested  in  the  experience  of 
a  great  multitude  of  bereaved  families,  and  its  healing 
power  is  not  lessened  by  time.  Surely  one  has  not  lived 
in  vain  to  whom  it  has  been  given  to  speak  words  of 
solace,  comfort  and  hope  to  millions  of  aching  hearts,  in 
measures  which  cling  to  the  memory  and  infuse  the  soul 
with  a  heavenly  calm. 

There  are  other  poems  in  this  volume  which  evince 
equal  genius,  though,  perhaps,  no  other  has  such  elements 
of  enduring  popularity.  The  one  entitled  "  Heaven " 
has  been  much  admired,  and  has  found  its  place  in  one 
or  more  collections  of  the  choicest  poetry  in  the  English 
language.  Without  specifying,  it  may  be  said  that  there 
are  between  ten  and  twenty  poems  in  this  book  which 
cannot  be  read  without  deep  emotion. 

But,  as  the  design  of  this  publication  was  to  please 
friends,  many  pieces  have  been  inserted,  whose  interest 
and  value  are  chiefly  personal  or  local,  or  both  combined. 
The  local  and  personal  associations  will  pass  away,  when 
the  poems  will  cease  to  have  many  readers ;  yet  these 
poems  have  great  merit,  nevertheless  They  have  pleased 
and  cheered  and  charmed  those  who  were  dear  to  the 
author,  and  so  have  proved  their  worth.  They  are  re- 


6  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

plete  with  sense  and  sensibility.  There  is  not  a  silly  or 
soft  line  in  them  all ;  they  are  the  outpourings  of  a  strong 
mind  and  passionate  heart,  all  under  the  control  of  high 
moral  and  religious  principle. 

It  was  a  question  whether  the  poems  should  be 
arranged  in  any  particular  order,  or  thrown  into  a  mass 
without  any  plan  of  combination.  If  the  date  of  each 
could  have  been  determined,  probably  they  would  have 
been  placed  in  chronological  order,  and  thus  left  to  ex 
hibit  the  growth  and  the  tone  of  the  writer's  mind  in 
successive  years.  But  this  was  impossible.  It  was  then 
concluded  to  make  an  effort  at  assortment,  and  arrange 
the  poems  under  several  heads.  The  result  is  shown  in 
the  following  pages.  It  was  soon  found  to  be  impossible 
to  make  a  perfect  classification,  as  several  pieces  under 
the  divisions  of  "  Religious,"  "  Love  and  Friendship," 
"Elegiac  Poems,"  and  perhaps  some  others,  are  inter 
changeable.  Still,  it  is  believed  that  the  greater  number 
are  in  their  appropriate  sections. 

One  trait  of  Mrs.  Wakefield's  mind  will  attract  the 
attention  of  every  intelligent  reader.  It  was  her  power 
of  entering  into  the  spirit  and  the  surroundings  of  her 
imaginary  characters.  This  is  evinced  in  numerous 
cases  ;  but  the  powe^of  putting  herself  in  another's  place 
is  seen  in  "The  Hour  before  Execution,"  in  "The  Mag 
dalen,"  in  "  The  Midnight  Bivouac,"  and  many  others, 


PREFATORY    NOTE.  7 

with  special  distinctness.  The  greater  part  of  the  "  Patri 
otic  "  pieces  show  how  Mrs.  Wakefield  entered  into  the 
very  life  and  spirit  of  the  soldiers,  and  how  deeply  she 
sympathized  with  the  anxious  ones  at  home.  The  poem 
entitled  "  War  to  the  Knife,  and  the  Knife  to  the  Hilt " 
cannot  be  read  without  a  shudder.  It  is  an  heroic  and 
awful  strain,  as  terrible  as  the  fiercest  lines  in  the  "  Mar 
seillaise  Hymn."  The  reader  must  remember  that  it  was 
written  in  the  darkest  hours  of  the  war,  when  the  very 
life  of  the  nation  was  in  peril.  The  writer  felt  no  per 
sonal  animosity ;  but  she  loved  her  country  and  longed  to 
see  its  assassins  smitten.  Her  heart  was  one  of  peculiar 
tenderness,  and  she  would  have  ministered  to  a  wounded 
foe  with  gentle  helpfulness.  The  songs  of  patriotism  are 
alone  sufficient  to  recommend  the  whole  volume  to  those 
who  fought  our  country's  battles,  and  all  those  who  re 
joiced  in  the  triumph  of  freedom. 

The  "  Miscellaneous  Poems  "  which  fill  the  closing 
pages  are  of  varied  merit,  and,  except  a  few  amusing 
trifles,  are  worthy  of  a  place.  See,  for  example,  "  Katie 
blowing  Bubbles,"  "  Bertha's  Christmas,"  and  others. 
With  these  explanations  and  remarks,  the  volume  is  left 
to  its  fortunes,  with  the  assured  belief  that  many  will  give 
it  a  warm  reception,  and  cherish  it  as  a  peculiar  treasure. 

A.  P.  M. 
LANCASTER,  MASS.,  September,  1882. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MEMOIR 13 

RELIGIOUS   POEMS 29 

OVER  THE  RIVER 31 

THE  SPIRIT-LAND 35 

SHALL  WE  KNOW  EACH  OTHER  THERE  ?  .  38 

HEAVEN 41 

THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  MAIDEN 44 

THE  EVENING  LESSON 47 

HOPE  AND  WAIT 51 

OUR  SHEPHERD 53 

LlFE 55 

LINES  ON  MY  LAST  BIRTHDAY 58 

"A  STILL,  SMALL  VOICE" 61 

JUDGE  NOT 63 

POEMS   OF   LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP  ...  67 

To  MY  HUSBAND 69 

BABY  ASLEEP 72 

THE  CHRISTMAS  STOCKINGS 75 

HATTIE •   .  79 

LAST  WORDS 81 

A  PICTURE 84 

SCHOOL-CHILDREN .88 

APRIL  RAIN 92 


IO  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

BE  KIND 96 

"TELL  THEM  I  AM  NO  MORE" 98 

ESTRANGEMENT 100 

WANDERINGS  AND  THOUGHTS  ON  A  SUMMER  DAY,  103 

CROSSING  THE  RIVER 106 

LINES  TO  L.  L.  H 113 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD    .        .        .        .        .        .116 

REMEMBER  THE  ABSENT 119 

LINES  WRITTEN  TO  HER  SCHOOLMATES        .       .       .121 

ADDITIONAL  LINES  TO  HER  SCHOOLMATES      .        .  124 

Too  LATE 126 

ONE  YEAR  AGO  TO-DAY 129 

ELEGIAC   POEMS        ........  133 

UNDER  THE  RIVER 135 

DOWN  BY  THE  RIVER 138 

THE  DYING  GIRL'S  LAST  WISH        ....  141 

LINES   WRITTEN     ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MR.   AND    MRS. 

HALE 143 

HOME 145 

LITTLE  EVA 147 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH 150 

APRIL  DAISIES 153 

THE  MESSENGER 155 

LITTLE  NELLIE 157 

IN  MEMORIAM 160 

IN  MEMORIAM 163 

THE  LOST  CHILD 166 

ELEGIAC  LINES 171 

THE  SNOW       .                              173 

OUR  LILY 176 


CONTENTS.  1 1 

PAGE 

PATRIOTIC    POEMS 179 

RALLYING  SONG 181 

A  VOICE  FROM  " OUR  BOYS" 184 

GOD  BLESS  OUR  SOLDIER  BOYS          ....  188 

THE  COMING  OF  FREEDOM 192 

OUR  FLAG .*  195 

Kiss  ME,  MOTHER,  AND  LET  ME  GO     ....  199 

FIGHT  FOR  THE  FLAG 202 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  WAR 203 

BE  TRUE  TO  THE  FLAG  OF  THE  UNION  .        .        .  207 
BE  FIRM  IN  THE  BATTLE  FOR  THE  UNION  .        .        .211 

THE  MIDNIGHT  BIVOUAC 213 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  LETTER 215 

CARRIE 221 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  BRAVE      .        .        .        .        .        .  223 

MOONLIGHT 228 

THE  BALL  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE       ....  232 

MASSACHUSETTS  TO  CALIFORNIA        ....  236 

LEVEE 239 

EXPOSURE  TO  A  "  DRAFT  " 244 

WAR  TO  THE  KNIFE 248 

OUR  VICTORY    __ 252 

LAUS  DEO 256 

HYMN 261 

POEMS   OF   NATURE         . 265 

INVOCATION 267 

NATURE 269 

COMFORT  IN  NATURE 271 

LIFE 273 

FLOWERS 275 


12  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SPRING  MEMORIES 278 

THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING 281 

IMPATIENCE .        .        .  284 

WHIMS 287 

THE  WINTER  RAIN 290 

A  GLIMPSE  FROM  MY  WINDOW        ....  293 

FLOATING  DOWN  THE  RIVER 295 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 299 

KATIE  BLOWING  BUBBLES 301 

LOOKING  BACK 304 

THE  POOR  MAN 307 

A  LEGEND 311 

THE  CARELESS  GIRL 322 

THE  CHILD  AND  ROSE 324 

To  SMOKERS 325 

THE  BRIDAL 327 

THE  FISHER 330 

WOMAN'S  RIGHTS 332 

BORROWING  TROUBLE 334 

THE  HOUR  BEFORE  EXECUTION         ....  336 

MAGDALENE 341 

WAITING  FOR  A  FRIEND  AMONG  BEASTS  OF  PREY.  345 

PLEASURE  OF  RAILROAD  TRAVELLING  ....  350 

ONE  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO       ......  356 

OLD  AND  NEW  SCHOOLHOUSE 360 

MY  DREAM 367 

INVOCATION 373 

BERTHA'S  CHRISTMAS 376 

THE  OUTCAST .        .381 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR        ....  385 

THE  DEATH  OF  KANE 389 


MEMOIR. 


THE  events  in  the  life  of  Mrs.  Wakefield  may  be  re 
lated  in  a  few  words.  She  was  born  on  the  seventh  day 
of  December,  1836.  Her  full  maiden  name  was  Nancy 
Amelia  Woodbury  Priest.  Her  father,  Francis  Dana 
Priest,  was  a  native  of  Gardner,  Mass.,  and  of  respectable 
parentage.  The  mother  of  Mr.  Priest  was  the  daughter 
of  Col.  Jacob  Woodbury,  a  leading  man  in  Winchendon, 
Mass.,  and  famous  in  his  day  as  a  Revolutionary  veteran, 
and  for  his  exploit  in  pursuing  and  slaying  a  wolf.  Mrs. 
Sophia  B.  Priest,  the  mother  of  Nancy,,  is  a  member 
of  the  Hale  family,  numerous  and  respected  in  every 
generation  since  the  settlement  of  the  town. 

Though  the  home  of  the  family  was  in  Winchendon 
during  nearly  the  whole  of  their  early  and  their  married 
life,  yet  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Priest,  who 
were  united  in  marriage  in  February,  1835,  moved  into 
the  easterly  edge  of  Royalston  a  few  months  before  the 
birth  of  their  gifted  child.  Thus  Winchendon  lost  the 

'3 


14  MEMOIR. 

honor  of  being  the  birthplace  of  Nancy  Priest.  After 
two  or  three  years,  the  family  returned  to  Winchendon, 
where  they  have  continued  to  reside,  with  the  exception 
of  three  or  four  years  in  Hinsdale,  N.H.,  between  1851 
and  1855. 

Nancy  never  attended  school  after  leaving  Winchen 
don,  when  in  her  fifteenth  year,  except  for  a  term  or  two 
in  Bernardston  in  1858.  "She  was  never  from  home," 
says  her  mother,  "  any  length  of  time  till  married,  which 
took  place  December  22,  1865."  Her  husband,  Lieut. 
Arrington  Clay  Wakefield,  had  made  an  honorable  record 
in  the  war  of  the  Rebellion,  then  brought  to  a  triumphant 
close  by  the  success  of  the  national  arms.  They  had  three 
children.  The  eldest,  Francis  Arrington  (born  July  6, 
1867),  and  their  second,  Harry  Cavino  (born  May  28, 
1869),  are  still  living  (1882)  with  their  father.  Their 
only  daughter,  Alice  Emma  (born  on  the  2?th  of  August, 
1870),  died  on  the  isth  of  the  following  September.  Six 
days  later  Mrs.  Wakefield  followed  her  child  into  the  fold 
of  the  Good  Shepherd. 

Such  are  the  outline  facts  in  the  life  of  one  who  lived 
about  thirty-four  years  in  the  privacy  of  home,  and  never 
attracted  notice  except  by  the  publication  of  an  occa 
sional  poem.  And,  as  these  were  generally  anonymous, 
the  author  was  heard  of  by  few  outside  of  her  immediate 
neighborhood  until  after  her  lamented  decease.  "  Lizzie 


MEMOIR.  15 

Lincoln,"  an  alliterative  pseudonyme,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  time,  became  familiar  to  a  portion  of  the  reading 
public,  while  the  name  of  the  real  author  was  unknown. 
Yet  that  quiet  life  was  full  of  an  inner  history,  —  the 
history  of  a  mind,  heart,  and  soul,  which  labored  with  a 
peculiar  intensity,  as  is  proved  by  nearly  every  thing 
which  found  expression  in  verse.  The  life  of  the  author, 
in  this  case,  is  to  be  read  in  her  writings.  Judged  by 
these,  she  had  a  strong,  clear  mind,  a  heart  full  of 
the  deepest  and  sweetest  sensibilities,  and  a  moral 
and  spiritual  nature  of  the  purest  and  most  elevated 
type. 

Without  being  a  precocious  child,  she  evinced  supe 
riority  to  the  ordinary  run  of  children  in  many  ways 
which  mothers  and  other  members  of  a  family  are  apt  to 
observe,  "  She  learned  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet, 
great  and  small,"  writes  her  mother,  "  in  the  summer 
before  she  was  two  years  old."  As  she  was  born  in 
December,  we  are  left  to  infer  that  she  had  learned  the 
alphabet  when  not  much  over  a  year  and  a  half  in  age. 
At  this  early  date  she  would  "tell  her  age,  and  repeat 
short  verses."  It  is  reported  of  her,  when  about  two 
years  old,  that  "  nothing  ever  pleased  her  like  hearing 
reading  and  singing."  No  instance  is  remembered  when 
she  ever  tore  a  good-looking  book,  articles  which  most  chil 
dren  treat  with  little  regard.  While  still  in  childhood 


l6  MEMOIR. 

she  "used  to  write  poetry  on  her  slate,  and  rub  it  out 
quickly  if  it  was  likely  to  be  read."  This  shyness  about 
exposing  her  lines  to  the  eyes  of  others,  characterized 
her  through  life.  Her  facility  in  making  rhymes  was 
soon  found  out  by  her  schoolmates,  who  used  to  coax 
her  to  make  poetry  for  them.  And  in  this  way  much 
was  extorted  from  her  in  after  years,  for  particular  occa 
sions,  and  sometimes  for  the  press. 

Something  of  her  peculiarities  may  be  learned  from 
the  following  extract  of  a  letter  written  by  a  respected 
Baptist  minister,  the  pastor  of  her  parents,  the  Rev. 
Andrew  Dunn  :  — 


"  She  showed  in  early  life  a  strong  desire  for  books,  and  made 
them  her  companions  by  giving  herself  to  reading  and  meditation. 
A  slight  acquaintance  with  her  in  her  childhood,  would  fail  to 
impress  any  one  with  the  idea  that  she  possessed  peculiar  traits  of 
mind,  which  betokened  future  greatness,  as  she  was  retiring  in  her 
habits,  and  very  reserved  in  the  presence  of  strangers;  being 
rather  indifferent  to  the  common  affairs  of  every-day  life,  willing 
that  other  members  of  the  family  should  work  or  play,  if  she  could 
be  left  undisturbed  in  her  reading  and  meditations.  Her  love  of 
books  conduced  to  make  her  in  school  one  of  the  best  scholars  of 
her  age.  Her  readiness  to  acquire  knowledge,  and  to  comprehend 
the  reason  of  things,  while  quite  young,  showed  the  careful  observer 
that  she  possessed  powers  of  mind  above  mediocrity.  She  seemed 
to  know,  as  by  intuition  or  abstract  thought,  what  others  acquired 
by  hard  study." 


MEMOIR.  ij 

The  independent  working  of  her  mind  was  observable 
in  her  childhood.  Mr.  Dunn,  who  knew  her  in  school, 
as  well  as  in  the  family  and  the  church,  continues,  — 

"She  was  truly  self-made  according  to  hef  own  ideal  type,  as 
she  would  make  no  one  her  model  of  imitation.  It  was  early 
manifest  that  the  Muses  charmed  her ;  for,  as  she  mused,  the  fire 
burned  in  her  mind  to  express  her  thoughts  in  verse.  Those  who 
peruse  the  productions  of  her  pen,  and  consider  the  disadvantages 
under  which  she  labored,  will  be  convinced  that  she  was  a  natural 
poet;  and,  had  her  life  been  continued  a  few  years  longer,  her 
poetical  works  would  have  been  greatly  augmented  and  enriched." 

She  enjoyed  the  usual  advantages  of  common-school 
education  in  a  town  where  the  schools  held  a  high  rank 
in  comparison  with  those  of  other  places.  During  the 
latter  part  of  the  time,  she  attended  the  academy,  then 
taught  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilmarth,  and  made  good  im 
provement  of  her  time  as  a  diligent  and  conscientious 
girl.  In  1851,  when  she  was  about  fifteen,  the  family,  as 
said  above,  removed  to  Hinsdale,  N.H.,  from  which  time 
she  ceased  to  attend  school,  except  for  a  short  period  at 
Bernardston,  under  Professor  Ward  of  Powers  Institute. 
In  the  following  collection  of  poems,  two  will  be  found 
relating  to  her  removal  from  Winchendon  to  Hinsdale. 
One  of  them  purports  to  have  been  written  at  the  age 
of  fourteen.  These  little  poems  have  no  special  merit, 
but  are  inserted  as  a  part  of  her  autobiography,  and  as 


l8  MEMOIR. 

evincing  her  varying  moods  of  mind  in  view  of  moving 
away  from  the  scenes  and  the  friends  of  her  childhood. 

The  poem  entitled  "  Over  the  River,"  which  has  car 
ried  the  author's  name  wherever  the  English  language  is 
read,  was  written  while  the  family  was  living  in  Hinsdale, 
and  probably  not  long  before  their  return  to  Winchendon. 
This  would  fix  it  at  about  her  twentieth  year.  -At  the 
time  she  was  living  at  home  and  working  in  a  paper-mill. 
One  day  at  the  noon  closing,  while  the  hands  were  gone 
to  dinner,  she  remained,  as  usual,  because  the  family 
resided  at  some  distance.  As  she  sat  on  a  sack  of  rags, 
looking  across  the  Ashuelot  which  flows  through  the 
village,  the  impulse  in  her  breast  mpved  her  to  write. 
The  origin  of  the  poem  is  given  in  an  article  prepared 
for  a  magazine  by  the  Rev.  E.  S.  Best,  a  Methodist 
clergyman,  who  once  had  an  appointment  in  Winchen 
don.  According  to  him,  the  poem  was  put  to  paper  in 
a  stormy  day,  while  the  author  was  gazing  through  the 
dusty  window-panes.  "  Over  the  misty  current  her  dark 
eyes  gleam  with  a  mysterious  brilliancy.  She  picks  up 
a  piece  of  paper,  and  with  her  pencil  writes  rapidly  for 
a  few  minutes  :  but  the  bell  rings  ;  the  machinery  begins 
to  clatter;  she  thrusts  the  paper  into  her  pocket,  and 
resumes  her  work.  On  that  crumpled  paper  is  written 
the  first  sketch  of  a  poem  which  has  gained  a  \vell- 
de  erved  renown."  The  author  of  the  poem,  in  a  letter 


MEMOIR.  ig 

to  the  brother  of  a  musical  composer  who  desired  to  set 
it  to  music,  gave  the  following  account  of  its  origin  :  — 

"  The  little  poem  to  which  he  purposes  to  give  musical  expres 
sion  was  written  originally  on  a  sheet  of  brown  wrapping-paper,  in 
the  '  hour's  nooning '  at  the  mill,  and  then  carried  home,  thrown  in 
with  other  loose  papers,  and  entirely  forgotten  until  I  came  across 
it  by  accident  again,  while  looking  for  something  else,  more  than  a 
year  after." 

It  is  stated  in  addition,  by  her  mother,  that  the  manu 
script  came  near  being  destroyed  soon  after  it  was  written, 
but  was  happily  rescued  from  an  inglorious  fate.  It  was 
left  in  a  dress  which  was  about  to  be  washed,  when  Mrs. 
Priest,  in  emptying  the  pocket,  found  the  bit  of  crumpled 
brown  paper,  and  so  saved  the  priceless  poem  which  the 
author  so  strangely  forgot. 

It  has  been  suggested,  that  she  may  have  written  other 
poems  equal  or  superior  to  the  one  which  made  her 
name  famous,  because  she  destroyed  very  many  which 
were  never  seen  by  any  eyes  but  her  own.  "  Several 
times  she  has  gone  to  her  desk,  gathered  up  all  her 
papers,  and  cast  them  into  the  fire."  She  did  not  seem 
to  appreciate  her  own  writings,  and  could  not  be  con 
vinced  that  they  had  any  special  merit.  The  fact  that  she 
forgot  all  about  "  Over  the  River  "  makes  it  credible  that 
other  flashes  of  inspiration  passed  through  water  or  fire. 

But  whatever  Miss   Priest  wrote  was  her  own.     She 


2O  MEMOIR. 

never  consciously  plagiarized  a  line,  or  borrowed  an  idea 
or  an  image.  Her  measure,  also,  was  the  vibration  of 
her  own  exquisitely  strung  organization.  A  controversy 
which  arose  in  regard  to  the  originality  of  "  Over  the 
River  "  gave  her  great  pain.  The  poem  first  appeared 
in  "The  Springfield  Republican,"  August  22,  1857,  when 
she  was  in  her  twenty-second  year.  The  editor  was  in 
formed  that  the  reputed  author,  "  Lizzie  Lincoln,"  had 
imposed  upon  him  by  sending  him  the  production  of 
another  writer.  When  the  question  was  put  to  her  as 
to  the  originality  of  the  poem,  her  reply  was  that  she 
could  not  tell :  "  she  only  knew  that  she  had  written  it." 
When  the  imputation  of  .untruthfulness  and  of  literary 
piracy  first  came  to  her  knowledge,  she  burst  into  tears, 
and  "  expressed  regret  that  she  had  ever  written  a  stanza." 
The  editor  of  the  Western  paper  who  had  started  the 
accusation  was  obliged,  on  examination,  to  confess  his 
mistake.  The  reputation  of  the  author  was  vindicated  ; 
but  a  wound  had  been  inflicted  which  was  never  entirely 
healed.  She  could  not  be  persuaded  to  enter  upon  a 
course  of  authorship,  or  even,  except  by  strong  persua 
sion,  to  write  occasional  pieces  for  the  press. 

The  writer  of  these  pages  recalls  a  fact  which  fairly 
exhibits  the  extreme  modesty  of  Miss  Priest.  In  making 
preparation  for  the  centennial  celebration  of  the  incor 
poration  of  the  town  of  Winchendon  in  November, 


MEMOIR.  21 

1864,  by  which  time  our  poetess  had  become  widely  and 
favorably  known  to  the  public,  she  was  requested  to 
write  a  hymn  to  be  sung  on  the  occasion.  It  is  repub- 
lished  here  in  the  "  Miscellaneous  "  division.  As  she  felt 
a  deep  interest  in  the  event,  the  request  was  readily  com 
plied  with ;  and  the  citizens  were  more  than  satisfied  with 
the  production.  When  I  took  the  poem,  after  looking  it 
over,  I  gave  her  two  dollars  as  compensation,  but  with  a 
sense  of  mortification  that  I  was  not  able  to  give  a  larger 
sum.  But  she  was  surprised  at  the  liberality  of  the  offer, 
and,  with  difficulty,  was  induced  to  accept  the  money. 
She  blushed  like  a  child  at  the  thought  that  her  trifle 
was  so  highly  appreciated.  The  occurrence,  which  I 
have  often  recalled  with  amused  interest,  was  recently 
confirmed  by  her  mother,  after  eighteen  years  have  inter 
vened,  by  informing  me  how  surprised  Nancy  was  at 
receiving  such  compensation  for  what  she  had  scribbled 
off  at  a  sitting. 

A  writer  in  "The  Springfield  Republican,"  soon  after 
the  decease  of  Mrs.  Wakefield,  recalled  a  scene  in  the  girl 
hood  of  one  whom  so  many  had  learned  to  love,  through 
her  writtings,  who  had  never  seen  her  face.  He  says,  — 

"  I  was  more  than  sorry  to  hear  that  the  gifted  author  of  'Over 
the  River  '  had  passed 

'  From  sight  with  the  boatman  pale 
To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land.' 


22  MEMOIR. 

I  knew  her  when,  in  1858,  she  was  a  pupil  of  Professor  Ward,  at 
Powers  Institute,  Bernardston,  Mass.  She  was  rather  a  shy,  quiet 
girl,  very  much  absorbed  in  her  studies,  but  always  pleasant  and 
obliging.  My  most  prominent  recollection  of  her  is  of  a  grave 
little  figure  bending  persistently  over  a  book,  with  a  profusion  of 
black  curls  falling  around,  and  almost  hiding,  her  intellectual  face. 
I  had  always  the  impression  that  she  had  a  different  motive  fur 
study  from  many  of  her  younger  and  gayer  companions  ;  that  she 
either  loved  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  or  had  reached  that  age 
of  experience  where  she  realized  the  true  value  of  education  and 
culture.  I  think  few  of  the  scholars  knew  of  her  literary  reputa 
tion.  The  first  intimation  I  had  of  it  was  at  the  close  of  the  fall 
term.  Hon.  H.  W.  Cushman,  at  one  time  lieutenant  governor  of 
Massachusetts,  had  offered  the  young  ladies  connected  with  the 
school  a  prize  for  the  best  original  essay,  and  she  was  one  of  the 
competitors.  Rev.  Mr.  Ranney,  in  his  speech  before  awarding  the 
prizes,  said  it  was  honor  enough  for  the  writer  of  '  Schoolhouses, 
Primitive  and  Modern,'  to  be  the  '  Lizzie  Lincoln  '  of  '  The  Repub 
lican.'  I  shared  the  genuine  surprise  of  most  of  her  fellow- 
students.  We  all  knew  '  Lizzie  Lincoln's  '  poetry,  but  had  not 
dreamed  that  she  was  one  of  our  happy  band.  I  remember  how 
the  blood  crimsoned  her  face  and  neck  as  all  eyes  turned  towards 
her,  and  what  a  new  interest  the  familiar  face  had  for  me.  I  felt 
that,  although  we  had  all  loved  and  respected,  few  of  us  had  ap 
preciated  her  at  her  real  worth.  She  has  found  appreciation  since 
in  thousands  of  hearts  and  homes." 

From  the  time  of  leaving  the  school  in  Bernardston 
her  home  was  with  her  parents  in  Winchendon,  and  the 
years  passed  by,  without  any  event  of  special  interest, 


MEMOIR.  23 

until  her  marriage,  near  the  end  of  1865.  She  was  en 
gaged  in  the  duties  of  the  family ;  and,  being  the  eldest 
of  the  children,  was  helpful  as  a  daughter  and  sister.  At 
times  her  life  was  varied  by  occupation  in  a  millinery 
store,  and  perhaps  in  other  employment.  During  all 
these  years  she  was  a  diligent  and  thoughtful  reader, 
having  access  to  a  well-selected  library  which  had  been 
established  in  the  village. 

The  following  passages  from  a  letter  of  Rev.  G.  A. 
Litchfield,  formerly  pastor  of  the  Baptist  church  in  Win- 
chendon,  gives  his  impression  of  her  character  in  the 
closing  years  of  her  life.  He  writes,  — 

"  I  knew  Mrs.  Wakefield  well  for  several  years,  and  officiated 
both  at  her  marriage  and  her  funeral.  I  knew  her  in  health  and 
in  sickness.  I  met  her  often  in  public,  but  oftener  in  the  quiet  of 
her  maidenhood  home,  and  later  in  that  of  her  own  home,  when  she 
had  become  the  wife  and  mother.  She  was  of  a  singularly  modest 
and  retiring  nature.  She  always  underrated  her  own  ability. 

"  In  presence  of  strangers  she  withdrew  within  herself ;  in 
presence  of  those  whom  she  trusted  as  friends,  she  would  often 
reveal  her  inner  self,  and  charm  the  listener,  not  less  by  her  char 
acteristically  original  and  imaginative  mode  of  expression  than  by 
the  choiceness  of  the  thought  expressed.  .  .  .  She  was  extremely 
happy  in  her  use  of  language." 

Mr.  Litchfield  then  alludes  to  the  fact  that  she  had 
offers  of  assistance  in  extending  her  education,  and 
states  that  it  was  a  source  of  regret  to  those  who  knew 


24  MEMOIR. 

her  rare  poetical  genius,  that  her  extreme  self-distrust 
and  dislike  of  notoriety  induced  her  to  decline  all  over 
tures  of  the  kind.  But  there  is  reason  tb  believe  that 
other  causes,  highly  creditable  to  her  character,  led  to 
this  decision.  In  one  case  a  lady  of  wealth,  with  rare 
generosity,  offered  to  give  her  a  finished  education,  and 
wished  to  treat  her  as  an  adopted  daughter ;  but,  how 
ever  desirable  the  literary  advantages,  she  could  not 
endure  the  thought  of  forming  any  connection  that  would 
come  between  herself  and  the  loved  ones  of  her  own 
home.  She  chose  wisely ;  and  her  heart  had  its  reward 
in  the  love  of  her  nearest  kindred,  and,  later,  in  the 
cherished  affection  of  husband  and  children.  How  much 
her  heart  was  bound  up  in  the  little  ones  is  apparent 
from  the  two  poems  which  will  be  found  in  the  division 
entitled  "  Love  and  Friendship."  One  is  headed  "  Baby 
asleep,"  and  the  other,  "  Christmas  Stockings."  These 
were  found  by  Mr.  Wakefield,  after  her  decease,  written 
carelessly  in  pencil,  as  if  under  sudden  impulse  of  the 
heart.  Another  piece  was  found  by  him  enclosed  in  an 
envelope,  and  reserved  for  his  own  eye,  after  she  was 
gone.  It  is  entitled  "  A  Fancy,"  and  is  a  priceless 
legacy  to  a  bereaved  husband.  One  verse  is  among  the 
most  touching  in  the  language  ;  and  the  thought  seems  to 
have  escaped  expression  hitherto,  though  it  immediately 
finds  an  echo  in  all  delicately  tender  souls  :  — 


MEMOIR.  25 

"  Forever  in  my  quiet  grave 

(Albeit  they  say  the  dead 
Know  nothing  of  the  busy  world 

That  whirls  above  their  head), 
I  think  my  sleep  would  be  less  deep 

It  any  but  thine  own 
Were  the  last  earthly  touch  I  felt 

Ere  I  was  left  alone. " 

The  whole  poem  bears  witness  to  the  happiness  of  her 
married  life. 

Nothing  more  needs  to  be  said  of  her  life,  except  to 
refer  briefly  to  her  last  days.  Mrs.  C.  P.  Fairbanks,  an 
intimate  friend  of  Mrs.  Wakefield,  wrote  to  me,  a  few 
weeks  after  her  decease,  stating  some  items  of  interest :  — 

"  She  did  not  expect  to  get  well,  but  she  said  nothing  about 
the  future.  The  day  she  died  she  seemed  very  cheerful.  After 
she  could  not  speak,  she  frequently  smiled.  Her  sister  asked  her 
if  it  was  her  happy  thoughts  that  made  her  smile  so  often.  She 
bowed  to  her,  and  looked  at  her  and  smiled,  so  that  her  sister  was 
fully  satisfied.  No  one  who  has  known  her  for  the  last  few  years 
has  any  doubts  but  she  was  a  Christian.  .  .  .  You  know  we  always 
called  her  very  plain  ;  but  in  death  her  face  was  beautiful,  and 
still  she  looked  perfectly  natural.  I  never  can  understand  how  it 
could  be.  On  her  pale  brow,  with  reverent  hands  and  tearful 
eyes,  I  twined  the  laurel  wreath,  and  folded  the  'pulseless  hands,' 
and  gently  laid  her  down  for  that  dreamless  sleep  which  knows  no 
waking,  —  more  beautiful  in  death  than  ever  I  had  seen  her  in 
life, — and  to-day  I  mourn  her  loss  as  the  dearest  friend  I  ever 


26  MEMOIR. 

had.  There  is  none  that  can  ever  fill  her  place  ;  but  there  is  light 
and  hope  'just  beyond  the  veil.'  There  is  a  new  attraction  'over 
the  river.' " 

The  memory  of  "  Nancy  Priest "  is  still  kept  as  green 
as  on  the  day  of  her  death  in  many  "  hearts  and  homes," 
outside  as  well  as  within  the  bounds  of  the  family  circle  ; 
and  the  mention  of  her  name  calls  up  tender  and  grate 
ful  feelings  in  thousands  of  bereaved  ones,  who  have 
derived  consolation  and  strength  in  their  griefs,  from  her 
best-known  poem,  "  Over  the  River."  Notices  of  the 
press,  private  letters,  and  oral  communications,  in  great 
number,  have  expressed  the  general  sorrow  for  her  early 
departure,  and  the  warmest  sympathy  with  her  stricken 
friends. 

This  imperfect  Memoir  may  be  fitly  closed  by  the  fol 
lowing  extract  from  an  article  in  "  The  Congregation- 
alist,"  dated  Nov.  3,  1870  :  — 

OVER  THE  RIVER. 

"  Our  readers  will  have  noticed  that  Mrs.  Wakefield  (who  wrote 
the  beautiful  lines  with  the  above-named  title)  has  recently  passed 
away  by  death.  As  nearly  as  we  recollect  the  facts,  these  lines 
were  first  published  to  the  world  some  fifteen  years  ago  ;  and,  what 
is  remarkable  in  them,  they  have  such  a  charm  for  the  people 
as  to  keep  them  in  constant  circulation  ever  since.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  a  single  week  has  transpired,  in  the  last  ten  years, 
when  these  verses  might  not  have  been  picked  up  from  one  or 


MEMOIR.  27 

more  of  our  American  newspapers  in  their  issue  of  that  week. 
We  know,  indeed,  of  no  bit  of  poetry  of  late,  from  any  pen,  that 
has  struck  the  popular  mind  so  exactly.  This  is  due,  in  a  measure, 
to  the  facts  that  death  is  ever  busy  in  these  human  households; 
and  little  children,  in  all  their  early  brightness  and  beauty,  are  con 
stantly  passing  out  of  their  earthly  to  their  heavenly  home  :  and 
these  lines  contain  the  very  balm  of  consolation  for  such  wounded 
and  bleeding  hearts.  But,  aside  from  the  subject-matter  (for  that 
is  common  to  a  great  multitude  of  little  poems  in  our  language), 
there  is  in  this  a  glory  of  conception,  a  beauty  of  language  and  of 
imagery,  a  burning  glow  of  genius,  such  as  are  altogether  remark 
able." 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS. 


OVER   THE   RIVER. 

OVER    the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 

Loved    ones    who've    crossed    to    the    further 

side ; 
The  gleam  of   their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of   sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue  ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  vj.ew. 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there; 

The  gates  of   the  city  we  could  not  see ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

3' 


32  OVER   THE    RIVER. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale,  — 

Darling  Minnie !    I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled    hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark ; 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark. 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side, 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ; 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who     cross     with     the     boatman     cold     and 
pale ; 

We  hear  the  dip  of   the  golden  oars, 
And  catch  a  gleam  of   the  snowy  sail ; 


OVER   THE    RIVER.  33 

And  lo !    they   have   passed   from   our   yearning 
hearts, 

Who  cross  the  stream  and   are  gone  for  aye ! 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day ; 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  over  life's  stormy  sea ; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore 

They  v/atch  and  beckon  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of   the  flapping  sail  ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand  ; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale 

To  the  better  shore  of   the  spirit-land ;    • 


34  OVER    THE    RIVER. 

I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 
And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 

When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 
The  angel  of   death  shall  carry  me. 

[We  doubt  not,  with  the  dear  ones  who  welcomed  her  to 
the  heavenly  shore,  she  waits  for  the  loved  ones  yet  left 
behind.  —  MARVIN.] 


THE   SPIRIT-LAND. 

BEAUTIFUL  country !  oh,  when  shall  I  see  thee  ? 

When  will  my  sinning  and  wandering  be  o'er? 
When  shall  my  feet,  wounded,  earth-stained  and 
weary, 

Bathe  in  the  river  that  laves  thy  green  shore  ? 
Beautiful  country !  the  land  of  the  angels, 

When  shall  I  reach,  and  wander  no  more  ? 

Beautiful  city !    how  long  ere  the  portals 

Of   thy  pearly  gates  shall  be  opened  to  me  ? 

When  shall  I  join  in  the  songs  of   immortals, 
Praising    the    love    that    has    brought    me    to 
thee  ? 

35 


36  THE    SPIRIT-LAND. 

Beautiful  city,  bright  home  of  the  blessed  ! 
When  shall  I  stand  by  thy  crystalline  sea? 

Earth's  joys  are  sweet,  but  they  lure  me  from  duty  ; 
Earth-loves  are   strong,  but    they  bind   like   a 

chain  ! 
Sometimes  my  heart    clings   to   life  and  earth's 

beauty 

With  a  wild  yearning  that  grows  into  pain ; 
And  I  forget  the-  bright  glories  that  wait  me 
Over  the  river  on  heaven's  happy  plain. 

There  bloom  the  flowers  that  wither,  ah  never ! 
There  live  -the  loved  ones  who've  passed  from 

my  sight; 

There  ring  the  anthems  that  sound   on  forever  ; 
There  walk    the    saints    in   their   garments   of 
white ; 


THE    SPIRIT-LAND.  37 

There  from   God's   throne   floweth   life's   crystal 

river ; 

There    shines   the   day   that   will   end   not    in 
night. 

Beautiful  city,    sweet  rest  for  earth's  weary ! 

When  will  life's  pilgrimage  journey  be  o'er  ? 
Beautiful  country !    ah,  when  shall  I  see  thee  ? 

When  shall  I  stand  on  thy  evergreen  shore  ? 
Beautiful  gate !    through  thy  opening  portals, 

When  shall  I  enter,  to  pass  forth  no  more  ? 


SHALL   WE   KNOW   EACH   OTHER 
THERE  ? 

WHEN  we  meet  in  fields  elysian, 

Freed  from  this  world's  pain  and  care, 
Shall  we,  with  our  spirit  vision, 

See  and  know  each  other  there? 
Can  it  be  that  death  wiir  sever 

All  life's  dearest,  holiest  ties ; 
Do  we  look  farewell  forever 

When  we  close  these  mortal  eyes  ? 

Shall  we  in  their  angel  plumage 
Know  the  loved  of   many  years  ? 

Lips  that  smiled  when  we  were  happy, 
Eyes  that  wept  for  all  our  tears  ? 


SHALL  \YE  KNOW  EACH  OTHER  THERE  f    39 

Ah,  how  drear  would  be  e'en  heaven 
Did  not  hope,  with  glances  bright, 

Whisper  that  the  hearts  now  riven 
In  that  world  shall  re-unite ! 

As  we  know  the  lambs  we  tended, 

When  they  came  from  pastures  chill, 
Bleating  to  the  fold  for  shelter 

From  the  bare  and  frosty  hill, 
By  the  ribbon  red  or  azure, 

That  we  tied  long  months  before, 
And  we  lift  the  gates  with  pleasure 

To  receive  them  home  once  more,  — 

So  shall  they  who've  gone  before  us 

Ope  for  us  the  gate  of  light ; 
Kiss  away  our  fears  and  trembling, 

Put  on  us  the  robe  of  white  ; 


4O    SHALL  WE  KNOW  EACH  OTHER  THERE? 

Lead  us  through  the  pastures  vernal,- 
By  the  feet  of   angels  trod, 

To  the  stream  of   life  eternal, 
Flowing  from  the  throne  of  God. 


HEAVEN. 

BEYOND  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies, 

Beyond  Death's  cloudy  portal, 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies 

And  love  becomes  immortal. 

A  land  whose  light  is  never  dimmed  by  shade 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal, 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade, 

But  blooms  for  aye  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  its  balmy  air, 
How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers ; 

41 


42  HEAVEN. 

We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there 
Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see 

With  our  dim,  earthly  vision  ; 
For  Death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key 

That  opes  those  gates  elysian. 

But     sometimes,     where     adown     the     western 
sky 

The  fiery  sunset  lingers, 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  silent  fingers. 

• 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar, 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  lightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar, 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 


HEAVEN.  43 

O  land  unknown  !  O  land  of  love  divine ! 

Father  all-wise,  eternal, 

Guide,  guide  these  wandering  way-worn  feet  of 
mine 

Unto  those  pastures  vernal. 


THE   ANGEL   AND    THE    MAIDEN. 

As  I  rested  under  the  greenwood-tree, 
The  angel  Azrael  came  to  me ; 
He  said,  "  The  Eden  land  is  fair  ; 
Thou    art    weary    of   earth,  —  shall    I    waft  thee 
there  ? " 

But,  though  I  had  longed  for  the  grave's  still  bed, 
My  spirit  sank  with  a  nameless  dread  ; 
I  could  not  motion,  I  could  not  speak,  — 
The  spirit  was  willing,  the  flesh  was  weak. 

"  I  hoped,"  he  said,  "  to  have  seen  thee  wear 
The  conqueror's  crown  on  thy  flowing  hair ; 

44 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  MAIDEN.        45 

I  hoped  to  have  given  thee  a  golden  lyre, 
And  heard  thy  voice  in  the  heavenly  choir." 

But  thou  art  weak  and  of  mortal  birth, 
And  thou  clingest  yet  to  the  things  of  earth ; 
And  longer  still  must  thou  tarry  here, 
Ere  thou  art  fit  for  a  higher  sphere. 

Yet  look,  O  maiden,  thine  eyes  shall  see 

A  glimpse  of  the  land  of  purity, 

That    thy  soul    may  turn    from    these    glittering 

toys 
To  the  crystal  fountain  of  purer  joys. 

Then  the  pale  mist  parted  before  my  view, 
And  I  saw  the  skies  that  are  ever  blue ; 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  valleys  green 

» 

And  the  river  of  life  that  floweth  between ; 


46        THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

I  saw  the  gate  to  the  realms  of  light ; 
I  saw  the  choir  in  their  robes  of  white, 
And  the  gleam  of  the  city's  golden  spires, 
Like  the  glimmering  lights  of  a  thousand  fires  ; 

And  I  heard  such  music,  so  rich  and  clear, 
As  never  fell  on  a  mortal  ear ; 
For  one  more  note  of  that  dulcet  strain 
I'd  live  a  lifetime  of  care  and  pain. 

Then  mist  spread  slowly  before  the  scene  ; 
It  hid  the  skies,  and  the  valleys  green  ; 
The  song  of  a  bird  on  the  still  air  broke ; 
The  angel  left  me,  and  I — awoke. 


THE   EVENING   LESSON. 

COME  to  my  knee,  my  darling ! 

The  long  summer  day  is  done ; 
And  low  to  his  rest  in  the  crimson  west 

Sinketh  the  fiery  sun. 
Come,  and  we'll  watch  together 

To  see  the  first  star  appear, 
And  I'll  tell  you  a  beautiful  story : 

Listen,  and  you  shall  hear. 

Shall  I  tell  you  of  wicked  "Bluebeard," 
Or  of   merry  "Robin  Hood"? 

Of   the  wonderful  "  Lamp  of   Aladdin," 
Or  the  hapless  "  Babes  in  the  Wood  "  ? 

47 


48  THE    EVENING    LESSON. 

Nay,  my  darling  knows  them  already : 
She  wishes  for  something  true  ; 

So  I'll  tell  her  a  sweet,  strange  story, 
Old,  yet  forever  new. 

Once,  in  the  past's  dim  ages, 

In  a  country  far  away, 
On   just  such  a  starlit  night  as  this, 

An  Infant  in  slumber  lay. 
But  not  in  a  costly  cradle 

Was  the  Baby  hushed  to  rest ; 
Not  on  a  downy  pillow 

Was  his  pure  white  forehead  pressed. 

It  was  a  dismal  stable ; 

Nestled  upon  the  hay, 
In  a  dark  and  narrow  manger, 

The  new-born  Infant  lay ; 


THE    EVENING    LESSON.  49 

And  his  mother  stood  beside  him 
And  watched  him  with  tender  eyes, 

While  the  patient  cattle  stood  around 
And  looked  their  mute  surprise. 

And  yet  this  lowly  Infant 

Was  the  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth  ; 

And  angels  came  from  the  shining  choir 

• 

To  sing  the  Redeemer's  birth  ; 
And  shepherds  from  plains  of   Judah, 

And  wise  men  from  afar, 
Came  with  gifts  to  the  holy  Child, 

Led  on  by  a  guiding  star. 

Now  in  the  highest  heaven, 

Glorious  all  thought  above 
He  liveth  and  reigneth  ever, 

And  his  holiest  name  is  Love. 


5<D  THE    EVENING    LESSON. 

Love  him  and  trust  him,  darling ; 

Go  to  him  every  day ; 
Tell  him  your  childish  troubles 

In  your  own  childish  way. 

What !    is  my  darling  weary  ? 

Her  eyes  are  closing  in  sleep  ; 
Over  the  orbs  of   shining  blue 

Slowly  the  white  lids  creep ; 
Lower  yet  on  my  shoulder 

Droopeth  her  golden  head ; 
Take  her  carefully,  father, 

Carry  her  to  her  bed. 


HOPE   AND   WAIT. 

WHY  murmur,  helpless  child  of  fate, 
For  what  a  Father's  hand  denies  ? 

Why  upward  to  the  crystal  gate 

Send  thy  weak  moans  and  feeble  cries  ? 

Take  heart !    beneath  the  winter  snows 
The  flowers  of  summer  nestle  warm, 

And  God's  eternal  sunshine  glows 
Unchanged  above  the  darkest  storm. 

And,  though  life's  wayside  flowers  be  few, 
And  thorns  thy  tender  feet  may  tear, 

51 


52  HOPE    AND    WAIT. 

His  hand  can  guide  thee  safely  through, 
And  he  will  give  thee  strength  to  bear. 

Look  upward !  though  thy  tear-dimmed  eyes 
May  fail  to  pierce  those  clouds  of  night, 

Behind  those  gloomy,  frowning  skies 
The  stars  still  burn  serenely  bright. 

Stand,  as  of   old  all  Israel  stood 

Before  the  widely  parted  sea ; 
His  arm  controls  the  mighty  flood, 

And  He  will  give  thee  victory. 

So  shall  the  cypress  on  thy  brow 

Be  changed  into  the  conqueror's  palm  ; 

And  life,  one  dismal  dirge-note  now, 
Swell  to  a  grand  thanksgiving  psalm. 


OUR   SHEPHERD. 

OUR  Shepherd's  watchful  care 

His  flock  shall  safely  keep ; 
To  living  pastures,  green  and  fair, 

His  hand  shall  guide  His  sheep. 

His  gentle  voice  they  know ; 

They  follow  where  He  leads, 
Through  vales  where  life's  bright  waters  flow, 

And  over  verdant  meads. 

But  fly  earth's  rude  alarms 
And  sin's  alluring  snares ; 

53 


54  OUR    SHEPHERD. 

Safe  folded  in   His  loving  arms 
The  tender  lambs  He  bears. 

He  keeps  them  by  His  side; 

Their  souls  to  Him  are  dear ; 
He  is  their  Father,  Friend  and  Guide, 

While  they  are  wandering  here. 

And  when  Hfe's  day  is  o'er, 
And  rest  and  peace  are  given, 

Bright  angels  on  Death's  farther  shore 
Shall  welcome  them  to  heaven. 


LIFE. 

"  Life  is  a  masquerade." 

LIFE  is  not  a  masquerade ! 

There  are  hearts  that  can  be  trusted, 
Hearts  by  selfishness  unswayed, 

Hearts  that  avarice  has  not  rusted, 
Hearts  that  love  and  cherish  truth, 

Deeming  it  no  idle  story, 
Hearts  that  keep  the  dew  of  youth 

When  the  head  with  age  is  hoary. 

Life  is  not  a  masquerade ! 
Love  is  not  a  vague  ideal  ; 

55 


56  LIFE. 

Spite  of  all  that  knaves  have  said, 
Honest  friendship  still  is  real. 

Let  us  not  life's  burden  spurn ; 
Gladly,  bravely  let  us  take  it ; 

We  have  yet  this  truth  to  learn, 
Life  is  ever  wJiat  we  make  it. 

We  may  make  it  grand  and  pure, 

Though  our  lot  be  low  and  humble, 
Building  names  that  will  endure 

When  the  pyramids  shall  crumble. 
To  the  peaceful,  heavenly  plains 

We  may  draw,  each  moment,  nigher, 
Making  sorrows,  cares  and  pains 

Stepping-stones  to  raise  us  higher. 

Let  us,  one  united  host, 

Forward  press  like  friends  and  brothers ; 


LIFE.  57 

Those  whom  God  has  blessed  the  most 

Doing  most  to  bless  the  others. 
So  shall  life  become  more  sweet ; 

So  shall  peace  and  joy  be  given  ; 
So  shall  light  to  guide  our  feet 

Shine  upon  our  path  to  heaven. 


LINES    ON    MY    LAST   BIRTHDAY. 

EIGHTEEN  to-day !   how  swiftly  time  has  sped 

On  his  aerial  flight !    how  silently 
The  days  and  weeks  and  months  away  have  fled, 

Bearing  me  forward  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
Bearing  me  farther  from  those  sunny  hours 

When  life  seemed  bright,  and  buttercups  and 

daisies 
I  thought  the  fairest  of  the  countless  flowers 

That  gemmed  the  fields  or  wildwoods'  devious 
mazes  ! 

Alas  !  that  childhood  hours  return  no  more, 
Those  golden  moments  of  the  happy  mind, 

58 


LINES  ON  MY  LAST  BIRTHDAY.         59 

When  wealth  and  fame  seem  dancing  on  before, 
And  every  gloomy  shadow  falls  behind ! 

But,  as  we  near  the  summit  of  life's  hill, 
The  sweet-voiced  sirens  lure  us  on  no  more, 

And  as  tales  to  the  churchyard  still 

The  ever-lengthening  shadows  fall  before. 

Alas  for  childhood's  fairy  dreams  of  hope ! 

Alas  that  they  were  naught  but  an  ideal ! 
That  we  must  dash  aside  her  pleasant  cup 

To  drain  the  bitter  chalice  of  the  Real. 
And  yet  the  heart  grows  stronger  with  each  trial ; 

And  e'en  the  bitter  conflict  in  the  soul, 
Each  thrill  of  pain,  each  hard,  stern  self-denial, 

May  help  us  on  towards  the  spirit-goal. 

And  yet  to  poet-minds  how  dark  and  dreary 
This  rough  and  thorny  path  of  life  appears  ! 


6O  LINES    ON    MY    LAST    BIRTHDAY. 

How  oft,  with  eyes  unstrung  and  spirits  weary, 
They  wander  through  this  world  of  sighs  and 

tears  ! 
Too    soon    they    feel    the    chilling    world's    cold 

censure, 

The  heartless  flattery  or  the  smile  of  scorn  ; 
See  others  walk  in  ease,  peradventure 

Their    own    torn    feet    too    sharply   feel    the 
thorn. 

But  while  I  know  not  what  my  life  may  be, 

Or  where  my  weary  life -bark  may  be  driven, 
Father  of  light,  I  look  alone  to  Thee 

To  guide  it  safely  to  the  destined  haven  ! 
If  storm-tossed  on  the  surging  sea  of  life, 

The  waif  of  every  wave  my  boat  shall  be, 
Breathe  Thou  upon  the  tempest  and  the  strife, 

Or  take  the  restless  wanderer  home  to  thee. 


"A   STILL,    SMALL   VOICE." 

"A   STILL,  small    voice,"  how    oft    we    hear    its 
pleading, 

Renewed  from  day  to  day, 
And  turn  away,  all  careless  and  unheeding, 

Refusing  to  obey ! 

It  comes  sometimes    at    the    calm    hour  of    twi 
light,  — 

That  whisper  in  the  breast ; 
Sometimes    it  waits    the    solemn    hush    of   mid 
night, 
And  robs  us  of  our  rest. 

61 


62  A    STILL,    SMALL    VOICE. 

It  speaks,  perhaps,  of  promises  we've  broken, 

Of  bright  hopes  we  have  killed  ; 
Of  words  of  kindness  we  have  left  unspoken, 

And  duties  unfulfilled  ; 

Of  some  weak  brother,  fallen  now  past  hoping, 
Whose  feet  we  might  have  stayed  ; 

Some  erring  sister  in  the  darkness  groping, 
To  whom  we  gave  no  aid. 

Anon,  it  utters  words  of  solemn  warning,  — 

"  Repent,  believe,  obey  ;  " 
And  we  resolve,  but  with  the  light  of    morning 

We  put  such  thoughts  away. 

Oh,  hear  the  voice !  oh,  heed  its  earnest  pleading 

While  there  are  time  and  room, 
Lest,  at  the  last,  upon  thy  ear  unheeding 

It  peal,  the  trump  of  doom. 


JUDGE   NOT. 

"  JUDGE  not  thy  brother,"   Christ  has  said, 

"  Lest  on  thy  own  unworthy  head 

The  wrath  thou  heap'st  on  him  be  shed." 

But  we  forget  the  mandate  stern  ; 
And,  if  his  feet  from  duty  turn, 
We  let  our  wrath  against  him  burn. 

And,  spurning  pity's  gentle  sway, 
We  haste  to  tear  each  screen  away, 
And  drag  his  errors  to  the  day. 

Not  so  does  God's  sweet  mercy  flow  ; 

His  vilest  creatures  here  below 

His  pitying  care  and  kindness  know. 

63 


64  JUDGE    NOT. 

His  blessed  air  is  free  to  all  ; 

On  good  and  evil,  great  and  small, 

He  makes  his  glorious  sunshine  fall. 

And,  looking  from  His  holy  hill, 
He  marks  the  strivings  of  our  will, 
Knows  all  our  sins,  and  loves  us  still. 

But  we  who  can  so  little  know 

From  whence  our  brother's  actions  flow, 

What  thorns  along  his  pathway  grow,  — 

His  helpless  groping  in  the  night, 

His  heartfelt  struggles  toward  the  light, — 

We  judge,  and  call  on  God    to  smite. 

Ah !  much  I  fear  that  in  that  day 

When  all  deceit  is  swept  away, 

And  all  things  seen  in  Heaven's  pure  day, 


JUDGE    NOT.  65 

If  we  have  slighted  this  command, 

And  stretched  not  forth  the  friendly  hand, 

To  help  a  feeble  brother  stand, 

God's  wrath  —  a  black  and  heavy  pall  — 
On  our  defenceless  heads  shall  fall, 
And  we  in  vain  for  mercy  call. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 


TO  MY   HUSBAND. 

WHEN  that  last  change  that  comes  to  all 

Shall  o'er  my  features  spread ; 
When  from  my  eyes  life's  light  fades  out, 

And  from  my  cheeks  the  red  ; 
When  o'er  the  heart  that  once  beat  warm 

The  pulseless  hands  you  fold, 
Oh,  kiss  my  faded  lips,  beloved, 

Albeit  they  are  cold ! 

For  since  the  time  when  our  two  lives 

Together  blent  in  one, 
Like  streams  that  from  two  different  springs 

Flow  singing  into  one, 

69 


7O  TO    MV    HUSH  AND. 

No  matter  what  of  hope  or  light 
The  weary  day  might  miss, 

I  never  close  my  eyes  at  night 
Without  thy  good-night  kiss. 

Forever  in  that  quiet  grave 

(Albeit  they  say  the  dead 
Know  nothing  of  the  busy  world 

That  whirls  above  their  head), 
I  think  my  sleep  would  be  less  deep 

If  any  but  thine  own 
Were  the  last  earthly  touch  I  felt 

Ere  I  was  left  alone. 

Kiss  me,  but  do  not.  weep,   beloved! 

Nay,  rather  bless  our  God 
That  made  so  bright  the  little  time 

That   we  together  trod  ; 


TO    MY    r. 

And  doubt  not  that  I  love  thee  still 

Wherever  I  may  be, 
That  as  in  life  each  pulse  that  beats 

Is  true  as  steel  to  thee. 

And  think,  that  just  beyond  the  veil 

Within  another  home, 
Wi:h  love,  and  faith  that  ne'er  shall  fail, 

I'll  wait  for  thee  to  come. 


BABY   ASLEEP. 

BABY  has  gone  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

Hush,  or  you'll  wake  him  !  how  still  it  seems ! 

Carefully  shut  the  bedroom  door ; 

Noiselessly  tip-toe  across  the  floor. 

See  how  sweet  he  looks  as  he  lies 

With  fringed  lids  shutting  the  dark-brown  eyes ; 

One  pink  palm  pressing  the  dimpled  cheek 

And  his  red  lips  parted  as  if   to  speak. 

Yonder  in  the  low  rocking-chair 
Is  a  broken  plaything,  —  he  left  it  there; 
And  there,  in  the  corner  beside  the  door, 
Lies  a  motley  heap  of   many  more,  — 

72 


BABY    ASLEEP.  73 

Jack-knife,  picture-book,  marbles,  ball, 
Tailless  monkey  and  headless  doll, 
And  new,  bright  pennies,  his  special   joy, 
By  the  father  hoarded  to  please  his  boy. 

There  lie  his  shoes  on  the  kitchen-floor 
That  all  day  long  they  have  pattered  o'er, 
Battered  and  chubby,  short  and  wide, 
Worn  at  the  toe,  and  cracked  at  the  side ; 
And  there  hangs  the  little  dress  he  wore, 
Scarlet  flannel,  and  nothing  more ; 
But  there  clings  about  it  a  nameless  charm, 
For  the  sleeves  are  creased  by  his  dimpled  arm. 

Dear  little  feet  that  are  now  so  still, 
Will  ye  ever  walk  in  the  paths  of   ill  ? 
Rosebud  lips,  will  ye  ever  part, 
Bringing  pain  to  a  mother's  heart? 


74  BABY    ASLEEP. 

Keep,  O  Father,  that  baby  brow 

Ever  as  pure  from  stain  as  now ! 

Lead  him  through  life,  by  Thy  guiding  hand, 

Safely  into  the  better  land ! 


THE   CHRISTMAS    STOCKINGS. 

THERE  they  are  in  the  corner, 
Hanging  up  side  by  side,  — 
Four  little,  dainty  stockings, 

Chubby  and  short  and  wide,  — 
One  for  Etta  and  Charlie, 

And  one  for  shy  little  Nell ; 
And  the  wee  little  sock  of   crimson 

Belongs  to  the  baby,  Bell. 

Bell,  to  whose  infant  beauty 
Every  new  day  adds  charms, 

Taking  no  thought  of   the  morrow, 
Sleeps  in  her  mother's  arms  ; 

75 


76  THE    CHRISTMAS    STOCKINGS. 

But  up  in  their  own  little  chamber, 

Bright,  eager  eyes,  I  know, 
Watch  for  the  sledge  by  reindeers  drawn 

Over  the  crispy  snow. 
t 
Sweet,  simple  faith  of   childhood ! 

Why  should  I  break  the  spell  ? 
Why  should  I  tell  them  that  only  a  myth 

Is  the  "saint"  they  love  so  well? 
Let  them  cherish  a  little  longer 

Their  simple  nursery  lore : 
There  is  time  to  learn  worldly  wisdom 

In  the  future  that  lies  before. 

But  what  shall  I  put  in  the  stockings  ? 

For  with  morning's  earliest  light 
I  shall  hear  on  the  stairs  the  patter 

Of   tiny  feet,  bare  and  white ; 


THE    CHRISTMAS    STOCKINGS. 

And  happy  and  childish  voices, 

Ringing  childlike  and  clear, 
Will  chirrup  a  "  Merry  Christmas  " 

In  a  half-awakened  ear. 

There  are  books  for  the  thoughtful  Etta, 

And  pictures  for  sunny-haired  Nell, 
And  skates  and  mittens  for  Charlie, 

And  toys  for  the  baby,  Bell. 
As  I  drop  them  into  the  stockings, 

My  heart  goes  up  with  a  prayer, 
That  the  loving  and  tender  Saviour 

May  make  our  darlings  His  care. 

"  Keep  them,  I  pray  Thee,  ever 

Safe  in  the  narrow  way ; 
Never  in  paths  forbidden 

Surfer  their  feet  to  stray. 


78  THE    CHRISTMAS    STOCKINGS. 

Guard  them  and  guide  them,  Jesus 
And,  if  the  world  grows  cold, 

Gather  them,  faithful  Shepherd, 
Into  Thy  blessed  fold." 


HATTIE. 

WHEN  Memory  turns  with  trembling  fingers 

The  misty  pages  of   the  past, 
And  fondly,  sadly,  fancy  lingers 

O'er  hopes  and  dreams  too  bright  to  last, 
Then  let  these  simple  lines  remind  thee, 

While  drifting  o'er  life's  stormy  sea, 
Where'er  its  drifting  tide  may  find  me, 

That  there  is  one  heart  cares  for  thee. 

And  may  my   Muse's  humble  token 
Remind  thee  of   some  happy  hours, 

Of   girlhood's  friendship  still  unbroken, 
When  comes  the  gloom  of   darker  hours  ; 

79 


8O  HATTIE. 

And  if   my  life  is  one  of   care, 
And  I  a  wanderer  o'er  life's  sea, 

Still  this  shall  be  my  daily  prayer, 
That  only  sunshine  rest  on  thee. 


LAST   WORDS. 

i 

SHE  said,  "  Why  should  we  start  and  shrink  ? 

Why  fall  your  tears  in  showers  ? 
Heaven's  land  lies  nearer  than  we  think 

Unto  this  world  of  ours,  — 
So  very  near,  that  I  can  hear 

Its  rivers  softly  flowing, 
And  feel  its  blessed  atmosphere 

Upon  my  forehead  blowing. 

"When  April  danced  upon  the  lea, 

With  violets  on  her  bosom, 
I  said,   '  I  shall  not  live  to  see 

The  hay-time  violets  blossom.' 

81 


82  LAST    WORDS. 

But  God's  own  kind  and  loving  way 

'Tis  time  alone  discloses  ; 
I  thought  ere  May  to  pass  away, 

Yet  here  I  clasp  June  roses. 

"  So  gently  ebbs  my  life  away, 

I  marvel  you  can  sorrow ; 
The  eyes  that  oped  on  earth  to-day 

Shall  ope  in  heaven  to-morrow ; 
For  at  the  going  of  the  night 

I  heard  a  spirit  warning, 
'  Look,  yonder  breaks  the  rosy  light 

Of  your  last  earthly  morning.' 

"  Your  love  has  given  my  life  its  charm, 
Through  all  my  being  flowing; 

But  stronger,  tenderer  is  the  arm, 
To  whose  kind  care  I'm  going:. 


LAST    WORDS.  83 

To  bear  me  over  Jordan's  tide 

God  sends  his  strong  evangel." 
She  ceased.     Our  home  had  lost  its  pride, 

But  heaven  had  gained  an  angel. 


A   PICTURE. 

SHE  sits  in  the  twilight  dim  and  tender, 
Carelessly  folding  her  small  white  hands, 

Watching  the  sunset's  crimson  splendor 

Fade  from  the  broad,  green  meadow-lands, — 

While    the    sweet    south    wind,    like    one    that 
blesses, 

Kisses  the  forehead  pure  and  fair, 
Wooes  the  red  lips  with  soft  caresses, 

Daintily  toys  with  the  golden  hair. 

Softly  the  mantle  of  evening  closes 
Over  the  landscape  wide  and  fair ; 


A    PICTURE.  85 

Faintly  the  breath  of  the  summer  roses 
Comes  on  the  dewy  twilight  air. 

Still  she  sits  by  the  window  lonely, 

Gazing  out,  though  the  night  grows  dark ; 

While     her     thoughts  —  winged     rovers  —  are 

following  only 
The  outward  course  of  a  gallant  baTk. 

One     that     she     loves     as     she     loves     none 
other, 

One  she  has  loved  this  many  a  day 
Better  than  father,  better  than  brother, 

Sailed  this  morn  in  the  ship  away. 

So  she  heeds  not  the  wind's  caressing ; 

She    is    standing   again    on    the   wave-washed 
shore  ; 


86  A    PICTURE. 

She  feels  his  kiss  and  his  whispered  blessing, 
And    is    thinking    his    last    words    o'er     and 
o'er :  — 

"  When  the  steps  of  another  summer 

Brighten  the  meadow  and  wood  and  shore, 

Close  on  the  steps  of  the  fairy  comer, 
I  will  return  to  roam  no  more." 

"  To    roam    no   more ; "  and   her    thoughts    run 

forward 

(It  seems  so  long,  but  'twill  come  so  soon), 
And  bask  in  the  blissful  radiance  borrowed 
From    the    rosy    light     of     the     next     year's 
June. 

Ah,  she  shudders  !   a  quick  suggestion 
Chills  her  heart  to  its  inmost  core  : 


A    PICTURE.  S/ 

She  is  asking  herself    the  dreadful  question, 
"What  if    his  ship  should  return  no  more?" 

The  clock  strikes  one  :   in  dreams  she  hears  it. 

What  can  have  changed  the  scene  so  soon  ? 
For  the  wind  wails  now  like  a  restless  spirit, 

And  dark  clouds  drift  o'er  the  rising  moon. 

Ay,  weep,  fond  dreamer!   for    ere  the  morning, 
Dark  and  stormy,  shall  dawn  on  thee, 

He  will  have  gone  beyond  returning 
Over  Death's  dim,  unsounded  sea. 


SCHOOL-CHILDREN. 

THEY  are  passing  now,   a   merry  group  :    I    can 

hear  each  joyous  tone. 
Two  are  walking  with  close-clasped   hands,   and 

one  trips  onward  alone ; 
And  each  one  holds  in  her  dimpled  hand  a  bunch 

of  spring  flowers  just  blown. 

One   has  eyes  of   the  brightest  blue,   and   curls 

of  the  sunniest  gold  ; 
Lips  like  rosebuds,  and  brow  white  as  the  Parian 

marble  cold,  — 
Nellie,    sweet    darling,    and    pet    of    all  !    she    is 

only  three  Aprils  old. 


SCHOOL-CHILDREN.  89 

One  has  eyes  of  a  darker  hue,  and  hair  like  the 

raven's  wing : 
She  could  not  move  with  a  queenlier  grace  were 

she  child  of  a  sceptred  king. 
You  should  see  her  lip  curl  with  scorn  at  some 

cruel  or  wicked  thing. 

And  here  is  another  boisterous  troop  of  bare 
footed,  laughing  boys, 

Quick  to  share  in  each  other's  griefs,  and  smile 
at  each  other's  joys  : 

Their  teachers  had  need  to  be  a  second  Job  to 
bear  with  their  fun  and  noise. 

They  are  past  ;  but  my  heart  has  followed  them 
where  my  feet  have  been  before : 

I  look  back  through  the  weary  years,  and  I  am 
a  child  once  more, — 


9O  SCHOOL-CHILDREN. 

Through  the   shady  path  where  the   May  pinks 
grew  to  the  low  red  schoolhouse  door. 


Oh,  those  pleasant  walks  through  the  grand  old 

woods,  where  the  south  wind  tossed  our 

curls  ! 
And  the  dew  on  the  grass  on  the  sunlight  shone, 

like  strings  of  the  ocean  pearls. 
Ah !    the  happiest  of  our  lives  were  then,  when 

we  were  but  careless  girls  ! 

Careless  and  happy !  our  hearts  were  glad  as  the 

streamlet  that  ripples  by ; 
We  shook  the  bee   from   the   clover-bloom,  and 

followed  the  butterfly ; 
And  the   squirrel   peeped  from    his  nest   in   the 

tree,  and  chirped  as  we  hurried  by. 


SCHOOL-CHILDREN.  QI 

Widely   and    far    are    parted    now :    severed    are 

friendship's   bands ; 
Some  are  away  in  the  distant  West,  and  some 

in  other  lands ; 
Some   dear   eyes    we   have    closed    in    rest,    and 

folded   some   weary   hands. 

We   turn    again    to    those    early  days   when   the 

path  grows  before, 
And  we  cry  again  aloud,  "  Come  back  again,  O 

halcyon  days  of  yore  ! " 
And  they  send  but  a   doleful  requiem  back,  the 

echo  of  "  Never  more." 


APRIL   RAIN. 

PATTER,  patter,  comes  down  the  rain : 

Small  are  the  drops,  but  they  fall  right  fast, 

Melting  the  snow  on  the  frozen  plain 

Where  the  stern  king  of  the  North  has  passed. 

Dashing  and  spattering  over  the  pane, 

Patter,  patter,  comes  down  the  rain. 

The  wind  is  rough,  and  the  leaden  sky 
Blusters  and  frowns  at  the  frozen  earth ; 

Over  the  heavens  the  gray  clouds  fly, 

And  the  firelight  flickers  upon  the  hearth. 

But  I  heed  not  the  storm,  I  hear  not  the  blast ; 

For  Memory  is  roaming  over  the  Past 


APRIL    RAIN.  93 

Among  the  things  she  loveth  best 

Are     friends     of     childhood,  —  a     bright-eyed 

band  : 
Some  are  away  in  the  distant  West, 

And  some  have  passed  to  the  spirit-land  ; 
And  yet,  when  the  voice  of  Memory  calls, 
They  are  living  pictures  on  Time's  gray  walls. 

Some  whom  I  loved  in  the  days  of   yore, 
Absence  and  time  have  sadly  changed  ; 

Some  whom  I  shrine  in  my  heart  no  more, — 
Some  (oh,  saddest  of  all)  estranged, 

Whose  very  names  make  a  thrill  of  pain 

As  surely  as  sunshine  follows  the  rain. 

Then    my   thoughts    go   out    to    the    churchyard 

old; 
And  the  tall,  white  tombstones  again  I  see, 


94  APRIL    RAIN. 

And,  shuddering,  think  how  damp  and  cold 
Must  the  narrow  bed  of  the  sleepers  be. 
But,  oh !  if  they  feel  not  care  and  pain, 
Will    they    start    at    the    drops    of    the    April 
rain  ? 

Then  I  list  again  to  the  moaning  breeze 

As    it    laughs    and   sighs   through   the  waving 

es, 

And  gaze  far  out  through  the  poplar-trees, 
Where    the   cheerful   glow   of    the    lamp-light 

shines. 
Oh     the    saddest     spot     where     the    feet     may 

tread 
Is  over  the  heart's  "  unburied  dead  "  ! 

Old  bygone  memories,  why  come  ye  back 
With  the  sighing  wind  and  pattering  rairi  ? 


APRIL    RAIN*.  95 

All  vain  and  wild  are  these  yearnings  deep, 

And  I  crush  them  down  in  my  heart  again, 
And  patient  wait  through  the  long,  dark  night, 
For  the  radiant  beams  of  the  morning  light. 


BE   KIND. 

BE  kind  to  each  other ; 

For  little  ye  know 
How  harsh  words  embitter 

Life's  hours  with  woe  ; 
They  leave  a  dark  shadow 

Of  bitter  regret, 
And  harsh  words  spoken 

Ye  cannot  forget. 

Be  kind  to  each  other 
In  life's  sunny  hours, 

For  kindness  will  cover 

Life's  pathway  with  flowers  ; 


BE    KIND. 

Be  gentle,  be  patient, 
And  peace,  like  a  dove, 

Shall  dwell  with  thee  ever,  — 
Sweet  peace  from  above. 


"TELL   THEM    I   AM   NO   MORE." 

TELL  them  I  am  no  more  ! 
Tell  them  life's  fitful  fever-dream  is  o'er ; 
Tell  them  its  brittle  chain  is  only  riven 
To  be  reclasped  in  heaven. 

Tell  them  I  longed  to  go, 

To    leave    this    world's    cold   heartlessness    and 

show, 

To  bow  with  the  adoring  cherubim, 
And  tune  my  harp  to  Him. 

Tell  them  that  my  young  life 
Was  darkly  shadowed  o'er  by  care  and  strife; 
98 


"TELL    THEM    I    AM    NO    MORE."  99 

Life's  little  time-voyage  is  but  short  at  best ; 
Heaven  has  a  safer  rest. 

Tell  them  the  world  was  cold, 
And  the  good  Shepherd  brought  me  to  the  fold ; 
There  in  green  pastures,  by  His  kind  hand  led, 
"  I  live,  whom  ye  call  dead." 

Tell  them  to  mourn  not  much  ; 

My  spirit  shrank  from  the  cold  tempest's  touch, 

As  the  mimosa  at  the  touch  of  blight 

Folds  up  its  petals  bright. 


ESTRANGEMENT. 

WE   have    been    friends  together   in   the   happy 

days  of  yore ; 
We've    spent    together  sunny   hours    that    come 

again  no  more ; 
And  we  meet  as    passing    strangers  in   the   gay 

and  heartless  crowd, 
With  dark   averted   faces,  or   with    glances    cold 

and  proud. 
There    is    no    flush    upon    the    cheek,    no    light 

within  the  eye, 
As  when  in  days   forever  gone   each   knew   the 

other  nigh. 


ESTRANGEMENT.  IOI 

Oh,  wherefore  should  this  anger-cloud  veil  heart 

and  cheek  and  brow  ? 
We    have    been   friends   together :   shall  a   light 

word  part  us  now  ? 
We   have   been   friends   together ;   my  hand  has 

lain  in  thine. 
I've  gazed  into  thy  earnest  eyes,  and  they  have 

answered  mine ; 
Together  in   the   twilight  we   have  watched  the 

first  star  gleam, 
And    our    hearts    were    blent    together   like   the 

currents  of  a  stream. 
Oh,  it   was    but    a   little   thing   that   turned   our 

barks  apart,  — 
Light,  careless  words,  that  wounded  though  they 

came  not  from  the  heart ; 
And  still  at  the   same   spirit-shrine  we   both   in 

secret  bow ; 


102  ESTRANGEMENT. 

We    have    been   friends   together :    shall  a  light 

•word  part  us  now? 
Oh,  look  not   down    so   sternly  with    thy  darkly 

shadowed  eyes ! 
I  do  not  need  thine  anger-cloud  to  darken  life's 

dark  skies, — 
We    have    been    friends    together ;    let     us     be 

friends  again  : 
It  is  not  well  to  tread  alone  life's  path  of   care 

and  pain  ; 

And,  as  thou  hopest  at  the  last  to  gain  a  glori 
ous  heaven, 
Forgive  my  wayward  wanderings,  as  thou  wouldst 

be  forgiven  ; 
Look  kindly  on  me  once  again,  as    in    the   days 

of  yore, — 
We  have  been  friends  together :  shall  we  not  be 

friends  once  more  ? 


WANDERINGS  AND  THOUGHTS  ON  A 
SUMMER  DAY. 

WE  wandered  down  the  garden-walks, 
And  talked  of  all  indifferent  things ; 

We  watched  the  mating  swallows'  flight, 

Swifter  than  pencil-rays  of   light  : 

She  said,  "  Ah,  would  that  I  had  wings  !  " 

And  I  replied,  "Wish  not  for  wings, 

My  angel,  lest  I  lose  thee  quite  ; 
Even  now  I  sometimes  fear  to  see 
Thee  fading  into  vacancy, 

Or  melting  slowly  into  light." 

103 


IO4  WANDERINGS    ON    A    SUMMER    DAY. 

"  Am  I  a  child,  then,  still,"  she  cried, 

"  That  you  should  deal  in  childish  speech  ? 

Methinks  you  overact  your  part ; 

Believe  me,  a  true  woman's  heart 
Stale  flattery  can  never  reach." 

We  wandered  'neath  the  forest  shade, 
And  where  around  the  giant  tree 

The  ivy's  twining  fingers  strayed. 

"Ah!  wouldst  thou  cling  to  me,"  I  said, 
"Thus  would  I  joy  to  shelter  thee." 

And  she  replied,  "Compare  not  me 
To  yonder  weak  and  clinging  vine ; 

Should  the  red  lightning  cleave  the  tree, 

So  strong  and  beautiful  to  see, 

Where  then  would  the  poor  ivy  twine  ? 


WANDERINGS    ON    A    SUMMER    DAY.  IO5 

"Grovelling  upon  the  dusty  earth, 
And  bruised  by  feet  of  passers-by, 

Devoid  of   beauty  and  of   grace, 

It  could  but  live  a  little  space, 

Then  droop  and  wither,  fade  and  die." 


CROSSING   THE   RIVER. 

» 
"  IT  is  growing  dark,"  she  murmured;  "and  my 

heart  beats  faint  and  slow ; 
Chilly  dews    are    gathering    slowly,  —  gathering 

on  my  cheek  and  brow. 
I  can  scarcely  hear  the  rustle  of   the  trembling 

aspen-tree, 
And  the   raindrops  falling  gently,  gently  falling 

over  me  ; 
But    I   hear  low  voices   murmur,  —  voices  as  the 

zephyrs  sweet,  — 
While   the   cold   waves   of    the   Jordan   lave   my 

weary,  earth-tired  feet. 

106 


CROSSING    THE    RIVER.  1 07 

"Come,  and   sit   beside  me,  mother;   come,  and 

put  your  hand  in  mine; 
Look    with    me    on    yonder    lakelet,    where    the 

glancing  sunbeams  shine, 
While    I    tell    you    of    a    vision,    beautiful    and 

strangely  bright, 
That    I    saw  before  me,  mother,  in   the  watches 

of   the  night. 
Do  you  not  remember,  mother,  'twas  a  glorious 

day  of   spring, 
When    the    violets    were    in    blossom,    and    the 

larks  began  to  sing, 
That    my    father    and    my    brother    sailed    from 

home  and  friends  away, 
And    we    watched     the     noble     vessel     gliding 

• 

swiftly  down  the  bay  ? 

"  Then   the   long   and    weary  hours,  lengthening 
into  days  and  weeks, 


IO8  CROSSING    THE    RIVER. 

When  distress  and  painful  waiting  drove  the 
health-tints  from  your  cheeks  ; 

Then  —  how  well  can  I  remember  !  —  came  the 
tidings  of  the  gale  : 

'Lost  at  sea,  and  all  hands  perished,  —  not  a 
soul  to  tell  the  tale.' 

Then  the  days  of  utter  darkness,  dragging 
painfully  along, 

When  our  hearts  could  hardly  listen  to  our  pet 
canary's  song, 

And  my  heart  rebelled  and  murmured,  —  mur 
mured  at  His  holy  will,  — 

And  the  tempest  waves  of  feeling  scarcely 
were  a  moment  still. 

"But  last  night,  as  I  lay  tossing  restlessly  upon 

my  bed, 
With    the  anguish   at   my  heartstrings,  and   the 

pain  that  racked  my  head, 


CROSSING    THE    RIVER.  IOQ 

All   the   room   grew  dim  with  shadows  ;  with   a 

slow,  upheaving  motion 
Rose    they  like    the    angry  surges   of    the    blue 

and  storm-tossed  ocean. 
Slowly  from  the   misty  vapors    rose   a   phantom 

pale  and  fair, 
With   the   dripping   seaweed   clinging  closely  to 

his  clustering  hair ; 
And    another,  —  taller,    paler,    with    a    forehead 

marred  by  time,  — 

And    about    them    glowed    the    radiance  of   that 
unseen,    perfect    clime. 

"  Brighter,  brighter   grew  the  halo,  till  my  eyes 

could  scarce  behold  ; 
And   methought  these  naked  rafters  looked  like 

bars  of   solid  gold, 
And  the  hands  of  that  old  dial  glittered  with  a 

diamond  ray  : 


IIO  CROSSING    THE    RIVER. 

All    around    our   cheerless    chamber    shone    the 

radiant   glow   of   day. 
Then  the  veil  was  taken  from  me,  and   I    knew 

our  spirit-guests,  — 
They  who  sleep  where  Ocean  mutters  her  deep 

requiem  o'er  their  breasts  ; 
And    I    trembled    with    vague    terror,    scarcely 

daring  e'en   to   speak, 
Lest  a   sound    or  look    or  motion    that  celestial 

spell  should  break. 

"'Weep  no  more,  beloved  daughter,'  —  'twas 
my  father's  voice  that  spoke ; 

Sweeter  than  the  sweetest  music  on  my  listen 
ing  ear  it  broke,  — 

'  Weep  no  more,  for  we  are  happy ;  yet  a  little 
longer  wait, 

And  our  happy  band  shall  greet  you  at  the 
broad,  and  shining  gate.' 


CROSSING    THE    RIVER.  I  I  I 

Then  the  golden  halo  faded,  and  the   room  was 

dark  again  ; 
But  within  my  heart  was  gladness,  where  before 

were  grief   and  pain ; 
And    the    blessed   words    he    uttered    fell    upon 

my    soul   like   balm  : 
So    the    tempest    has    subsided,    and    my    weary 

mind  is  calm. 

"  I    shall    meet     them "  —     But    death's    angel 

stooped  upon  his  shadowy  wing, 
And  the  loved  one  gladly  followed   to  the   land 

where  angels  sing. 
Silently,   as    stars   at   midnight    sink   within    the 

western    skies, 
Welled  the  light    of   angel    glory  in    the   depths 

of   those  blue  eyes  ; 
But    the    soul    was    climbing    higher    than    the 

sunbeam    or   the    star, 


112  CROSSING    THE    RIVER. 

To  the  great  white   throne  above  us,  where  the 

souls  of  just  ones  are. 
Silently     we     moved     about     her ;    silently     we 

smoothed   her   hair, 
For  a   tearful   awe  was  on   us,  for  the   steps    of 

Death  were  there. 


LINES   TO   L.    L.    H. 

Do  you  remember,  sister  Lu, 

The  little  "willow  lane"? 
On  either  side  the  hedge,  there  stood 

Green  fields  of   waving  grain. 
How  many  times  we've  wandered  there, 

In  summer's  quiet  hours, 
As  happy  as  the  humming-bird 

That  nestled  in  the  flowers  ! 

Have  you  forgot  the  maple-tree 
That  grew  so  near  the  stream, 

How,  through  its  interlacing  boughs, 
The  sunlight  used  to  gleam  ? 

"3 


114  LINES    TO    L.    L.    H. 

'Twas  there  the  earliest  violets  grew, 
And  there  they  lingered  last  : 

I'm  sure  you've  not  forgotten,  Lu, 
These  "  memories  of  the  past." 

How  often  in  the  forest,  too, 

We  wandered  side  by  side, 
In  the  happy  days  of  "long  ago," 

Before  you  were  a  bride  ! 
Never  were  skies  so  bright  and  blue, 

Or  stars  so  clear  and  bright, 
As  the  sky  that  arched  above  us  then, 

And  the  stars  that  gemmed  the  night. 

We  are  no  longer  children,  Lu, 

And  on  life's  battle-plain, 
Where  mingled  oft  in  Pleasure's  cup 

Are  sorrow,  care,  and  pain. 


LINES    TO    L.    L.    H.  115 

Sweet  memories  of   the  past  will  come, 

Like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
To  keep  alive  the  faith  and  hope 

Of   childhood's  sunny  hours. 


THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD. 

I  WONDER  if   poverty  is  a  stain  : 

When  I  passed  to-day  by  Anna  Lee, 

Her  red  lips  curled  with  a  proud  disdain  ; 
They  wore  no  welcoming  smile  for  me. 

I  was  weak  and  foolish  and  vain,  I  know, 
But  my  eyes  grew  misty  and  dim  with  tears  : 

I  had  measured  her  love  by  my  own,  and  so 
I    had    not    dreamed    it    would    change    with 
years. 

Long  years  had  passed  since  I  saw  her  last ; 
The  world  has  altered  to  her  and  me : 

116 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD.  1 1/ 

I  on  life's  ocean  am  friendless  cast, 
And  a  petted  heiress  is  Anna  Lee. 

Mid  the  hurrying  crowd  I  took  my  stand, 
And  waited  her  coming  with  eager  eye ; 

She  gathered  her  silks  in  her  dainty  hand, 
And  coldly,  haughtily  passed  me  by. 

Is  it  my  fault  that  I  am  poor? 

Is  love  to  be  bought  and  sold  ? 
Have  only  the  rich  a  right  to  life  ? 

Must  the  chain  of  friendship  be  clasped  with 
gold  ? 

You  are  flattered  and  worshipped,  Anna  Lee, 
Till  you  almost  fancy  yourself   divine  ; 

But  the  time  may  come  —  ay,  the  time  will  be  — 
When  you  would  not  mock  at  a  love  like  mine. 


Il8  THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD. 

For  youth  and  beauty  will  fleet  and  wane, 
And  friends  will  vanish  when  riches  flee : 

God  grant  you  may  never  feel  the  pain 
Your  scorn  and  silence  have  given  me ! 


REMEMBER   THE  ABSENT. 

REMEMBER     the     absent !     though     long    weary 

miles 
Stretch      darkly      between      us,      and      cares 

intervene ; 

Remember  the  pleasures  of  days  that  are  gone, 
And    still    keep    their    memory   fadeless    and 
green. 

Remember     the     absent !      though     others      are 

near, 

And    you    dream    that    their    friendship    will 
never  grow   cold ; 

119 


I2O  REMEMBER    THE    ABSENT. 

Remember     there's     one     holds    your    memory 

dear, 
And  treasures  it  up  as  the  miser  his  gold. 

Remember     the     absent      when    music's    sweet 

tone 
Is     thrilling     thy     heart     with     a     throbbing 

delight ! 

Remember  how  often  thy  voice  joined  my  own, 
And    our  songs    rang   out    clear  on    the    star- 
lighted    night. 

Remember  the  absent !   though  far,  far  away ; 

Remember  amid  every  sorrow  and  care ; 
And,    when    in    the   twilight    you    bow    you    to 

pray, 

Remember    the     absent,    and     plead    for    me 
there. 


LINES     WRITTEN     TO     HER     SCHOOL 
MATES. 

AGE,   FOURTEEN   YEARS. 

E'ER  many  suns  have  risen  and  set, 

I  leave  my  pleasant  home 
And  friends  and  schoolmates  with  regret, 

Mid  other  scenes  to  roam  ; 
And  now,  while  I  am  with  you  here, 

Sad  thoughts  my  bosom  swell, 
That  I  must  leave  my  home  so  dear, 

And  say  a  sad  farewell. 

I  may  not  see  my  home  again 
For  many,  many  years : 


122      LINES    WRITTEN    TO    HER    SCHOOLMATES. 

What  wonder  that  I  leave  it  then 
With  sadness  and  with  tears  ? 

My  home  within  the  Granite  State 
May  even  be  as  fair 

As  my  'home  within  the  old  Bay  State  ; 
But  my  heart  will  not  be  there. 

And  I  must  bid  you  now  farewell, 

New  friends  and  home  to  find : 
My  mountain-home  may  be  as  fair, 

And  other  friends  as  kind  ; 
But  my  heart  will  ever  turn  from  it, 

In  sorrow  or  despair, 
To  my  home  within  the  old  Bay  State, 

And  friends  that  I  left  there. 

Farewell !    farewell !      Heaven  only  knows 
When  we  shall  meet  again ; 


LINES    WRITTEN    TO    HER    SCHOOLMATES.       123 

But  we  may  hold  sweet  intercourse 
Through  the  medium  of   the  pen. 

We  have  been  friends,  and  though  apart, 
If   feelings,  thought,  and  will 

Are  still  as  now  in  unison, 
We'll  be  together  still. 


ADDITIONAL   LINES   TO  HER  SCHOOL 
MATES. 

I'M  going  to  leave  the  old  Bay  State, 
And  my  own  dear,  pleasant  home, 

To  live  a  while  mid  other  scenes, 
O'er  other  hills  to  roam. 

• 

My  feet  will  press  the  verdant  soil, 

With  happy  heart  elate ; 
So  I'm  off,  I'm  off,  on  the  wings  of   the  wind 

To  my  home  in  the  Granite  State. 

For  tears  and  sighs  I  can  spare  no  time ; 

No  vain  regrets  I  feel  : 
It's  the  fate  which  fortune  gave  to  me, 

And  set  with  solemn  seal. 
124 


ADDITIONAL    LINES    TO    HER    SCHOOLMATES.     125 

For  "sad  farewells"  I  do  not  care, 

And  cannot  for  them  wait ; 
For  I'm  off,  I'm  off,  on    the  wings  of   the  wind 

To  my  home  in  the  Granite  State. 

So,  friends,  good-by  :  I  cannot  wait ; 

But,  if  you  chance  to  come 
Within  the  Granite  State,  just  call 

And  see  me  at  my  home. 
The  latch-string  hangs  outside  the  'door  : 

To  knock  you  need  not  wait  ; 
Now  I'm  off,  I'm  off,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind 

To  my  home  in  the* Granite  State. 


'  TOO   LATE. 

"Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The  saddest  are  these,  '  It  might  have  been.' " 

TALK  not  to  me  of   coldness  or  deceit ; 

Talk  not  to  me  of  a  remorseless  fate  : 
There    was    a    time    when    I     had    deemed    it 
sweet 

To  be  beloved  by  thee,  but  'tis  too  late. 

Once  all  the  pulses  of   my  heart  were  stirred 
By  the  most  careless  mention  of  thy  name : 

Thy  slightest  glance,  thy  lightest  spoken  word, 
Kindled  my  cheek  with   sunset's  ruddy  flame. 
126 


TOO    LATE.  127 

And  then  there  dawned  on  thee  a  fairer  face, 
And  the  shy,  awkward  child  was  soon  forgot : 

I  had  not  charm  of   beauty  or  of   grace 

To    keep     you    mine,    and    so     I     murmured 
not. 

Now,  after  all  these  years  of  wandering, 

When  all   the   dreams   of   youth   are   gone   to 
waste, 

You  come  again,  and  in  your  heart  you  bring 
The  cup  I  have  no  longer  heart  to  taste. 

You   love   me  with  your  manhood's  -strength   at 

last: 

I  read  untouched  the  secret  in  your  eyes ; 
I    might    have    loved    you ;     but    the    time    is 

past, 
And  I  —  I  do  not  wish  it  otherwise. 


128  TOO    LATE. 

The  love  I  longed  for  once  is  mine  at  last ; 

I  know  it  by  a  thousand  silent  signs  : 
By  the  dim  light  of   my  long-buried  past,          , 

All  that  is  in  your  heart  my  heart  divines. 

If   but  my  hands  rest  lightly  on  your  arm, 
Your  strong  frame  trembles  now  as  mine  did 
then. 

My  cheeks  blush  not ;  my  pulses  beat  on  calm : 
You  are  to  me  no  more  than  other  men. 

I  can  look  back  with  eyes  undimmed  and  clear, 
And  forward  with  no  wish  to  change  my  fate ; 

And  if   thou  wilt,  that  once  I  held  thee  dear, 
Say  not  again,  "It  is  too  late." 


ONE   YEAR   AGO   TO-DAY. 

I  AM  sitting  in  twilight 

To  take  my  evening  rest, 
And  watch  the  crimson  sunset 

Fade  slowly  from  the  west. 
On  the  wall  the  firelight  flitters, 

And  the  shadows  dance  and  play, 
While  my  thoughts  go  travelling  backwards 

To  a  year  ago  to-day. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  ponder, 

Till  the  present  seems  a  dream  : 
In  the  gathering  gloom  and  darkness 

I  can  see  the  white  tents  gleam  ; 

129 


I3O  ONE    YEAR   AGO    TO-DAY. 

And  the  footstep  of   the  passer, 
As  it  echoes  down  the  street, 

Becomes  the  sentry's  footfall 
Pacing  slowly  down  his  beat. 

My  wife  sits  here  beside  me, 

And  I  hold  her  ha»d  in  mine ; 
But  I'm  listening  for  the  drum-beat, 

And  the  tramping  of   the  line ; 
And  the  voice  sounds  faint  and  distant, 

Like  some  far-off,  unseen  stream  ; 
And  I  half   expect  the  bugle 

To  wake  me  from  a  dream. 

Past  and  present,  which  is  real  ? 

Is  my  country's  peril  past? 
And  the  hour  I  scarce  dared  hope  for, 

Is  it  truly  mine  at  last  ? 


ONE    YEAR    AGO    TO-DAY. 

Do  I  see  a  face  beside  me 

That  I  thought  to  see  no  more? 

Or  am  I  only  dreaming, 

As  a  thousand  times  before  ? 


ELEGIAC   POEMS. 


UNDER   THE   RIVER. 

THOU  blue  Potomac,  gently  flow! 

Committed  to  thy  keeping, 
With  hearts  that  quailed  not  'neath  the  foe, 

My  loved  and  lost  is  sleeping. 
Ye  little  waves  that  kiss  the  light, 

Upspringing  in  your  gladness, 
I  have  a  tale  to  tell  to-night, 

Should  tame  you  all  to  sadness. 

But  grief   may  come,  and  grief   may  go, 
And  hearts  meet,  and  hearts  sever : 

The  sun  shines  on  the  stream's  still  flow, 
And  so  'twill  be  forever. 

'35 


136  UNDER    THE    RIVER. 

Yet,  thou  blue  river,  as  I  sit 

And  muse  beside  thee  sadly, 
I  cannot  bear  that  thou  shouldst  yet 

Smile  on  so  warm  and  gladly  : 
I  think  of   dear  eyes  that  met  mine,  — 

Brave  eyes,  that  smiled  at  parting. 
Ah  me !    they've  lost  their  gentle  smile, 

And  tears  in  mine  are  starting. 

But  grief   may  come,  and  grief   may  go, 
And  hearts  meet,  and  hearts  sever : 

The  sun  shines  on,  the  stream's  still  flow, 
And  so  'twill  be  forever. 

Well,  sparkle  on  !    it  boots  not  now : 
He  heeds  not  ;  should  I  mind  it  ? 

But,  oh  !   kiss  gently  his  cold  brow, 
Ye  little  waves  that  find  it. 


UNDER    THE    RIVER.  137 

Kiss  his  white  lips,  as  once  I  pressed 

My  kisses  warm  and  glowing, 
And  murmur  gently  round  his  rest, 

Ye  bright  waves,  brightly  flowing. 

But  grief  may  come  and  grief   may  go, 
And  hearts  meet  and  hearts  sever : 

The  sun  shines  on  the  stream's  still  flow, 
And  so  'twill  be  forever. 


DOWN    BY   THE    RIVER. 

MADGE  and  Nellie  and  Kate  and  I 
Wandered  down  by  the  river's  side, 

And  watched  the  wavering  shadows  fly 
Like  gliding  barks  o'er  its  level  tide. 

And  many  a  merry  song  we  sung, 
And  many  a  joyous  tale  we  told, 

Till  the  air  with  our  fitful  laughter  rung 
And  the  echo  replied  from  the  forest  old. 

Memory  tells  me  that  they  were  fair,  — 
Madge,  with  her  clustering  nut-brown  curls, 

'38 


DOWN    BY    THE    RIVER.  139 

And  Nellie  and  Kate  with  their  sunny  hair, 
And  lips  like  rosebuds  and  teeth  like  pearls. 

Rocking  to  rest  in  their  sweet  content, 
The  birds  their  heaven-taught  vesper  sung ; 

And  over  our  heads,  like  a  gorgeous  tent, 
The  crimson  curtains  of   sunset  hung. 

The  lilies  lifted  their  queenly  heads 

And  swayed  with  the  current  to  and  fro ; 

And   the   wild   flowers   leaned   o'er  their  grassy 

beds 
And  gazed  at  themselves  in  the  wave  below. 

Now,  as  then,  on  the  level  tide 

The  crimson  stains  of   the  sunset  lie ; 

But  we  roam  no  more  by  the  river's  side,  — 
Madere  and  Nellie  and  Kate  and  I. 


I4O  DOWN    BY    THE    RIVER. 

I  go  alone  to  the  churchyard  gray, 

Where  three  white  stones  stand  side  by  side ; 
And  memory  carries  my  thoughts  away 

To  the  dismal  day  when  our  loved  ones  died. 

Silently  passed  they,  one  by  one, 

As  stars  fade  out  from  the  sky  above 

In  the  glorious  beams  of   the  rising  sun  : 
Ah,  if   death  were  the  end  of   earthly  love ! 


THE   DYING   GIRL'S    LAST   WISH. 

OH  !    bury  me  not  in  the  dismal  tomb, 
Where  all  is  coldness,  stillness  and  gloom ; 
Let  me  rest  in  peace,  when  I  must  die, 
Beneath  the  canopy  of   the  sky. 

Oh  !    place  not  over  me  lying  stones 
To  mark  the  crypt  of   my  mouldering  bones ; 
But  make  my  grave  in  some  sunny  spot 
Where  I  may  sleep  by  the  world  forgot. 

And  robe  me  not  in  a  ghostly  dress 

When  I  am  arrayed  for  my  dreamless  sleep ; 

141 


142  THE    DYING    GIRL  S    LAST    WISH. 

When    the    sods    of    the   valley   my  head    shall 

press, 
And  o'er  me  the  bending  willow  sweep. 

But  strew  ye  with  flowers  my  narrow  bed, 
And  shed  not  a  tear  o'er  my  early  rest ; 

But  think,  as  ye  pillow  my  youthful  head, 
'Tis  the  will  of  God :  He  knoweth  best. 


LINES   WRITTEN    ON    THE   DEATH    OF 
MR.   AND   MRS.    HALE. 

*. 
WEEP  not ;   for  Christians  have  gone  home 

To  mansions  in  the  sky ; 
To  roam  through  fields  of  Paradise, 
Where  pleasures  never  die. 

No  care  nor  pain  can  e'er  molest, 

Nor  troubles  vex  them  more, 
No  sorrow  break  upon  their  rest : 

Their  mortal  life  is  o'er. 

Tearful  and  gentle  in  their  lives, 
Death  had  for  them  no  pain  ; 

'43 


144    I-INES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.   AND   MRS.  HALE. 

The  world  had  lost  its  power  to  charm, 
For  them  to  die  was  sain. 


For  they  have  gained  a  better  land, 
And  death's  dark  stream  is  past ; 

And  with  the  glorious  angel-band 

> 

Their  happy  lot  is  cast. 


HOME. 

THY  home    is  sad  and  desolate  :    no    father  now 

is  there 
To     greet    thee    with     a     welcome     home ;     no 

mother's    tender   care 
And    sympathy    to   lighten    thy   every   toil   and 

pain, 
And     nevermore     that    much-loved    voice    shall 

greet    thy   ear   again. 

And    never    canst    thou    receive   their   blessings 

and   their   prayers  : 
Thy    home    is    still    unchanged,    but,    oh !     trie 

loved   ones    are   not   there ; 

'45 


146  HOME. 

And   other  feet  will  tread    the   paths    that   they 

so  long  have  trod, 
While    their   freed    spirits    gladly   dwell    before 

the   throne   of   God. 

Yet     upward     look,    midst     all    thy    grief     and 

anguish    and   distress, 
Unto     the     gracious     Father     of     those    who're 

fatherless ; 
And  think,  oh,  think !    when  thou  art  free  from 

all  life's  care  and  pain, 
In    a     world    of     ransomed    spirits    thou    shalt 

meet    them    both    aerain. 


LITTLE   EVA. 

PART  the  damp  curls  from  the  forehead, 

For  the  spirit  has  flown  to  the  skies  ; 
Press  down  the  darkly  fringed  eyelids 

Over  the  beautiful  eyes  ; 
Fold  the  white  hands  on  her  bosom  ; 

Place  a  white  rose  by  her  side : 
Just  as  our  darling  one  blossomed, 

Just  so  our  darling  one  died. 

Naught  cares  she  now  for  our  weeping  : 
Tears  like  the  raindrops  may  fall ; 

Calmly  our  Eva  lies  sleeping; 
Happiest  is  she  of   all. 

147 


148  LITTLE    EVA. 

Forth  come  ye  now  to  behold  her  ; 

Take  a  last  look  while  you  may ; 
Then  to  green,  quiet  churchyard, 

Bear  on  the  beautiful  clay. 

Lower  ye  lightly  her  coffin ; 

Press  the  green  turf  on  her  breast ; 
Then,  'neath  the  boughs  of   the  willow, 

Leave  we  our  Eva  to  rest. 
What  though  our  home  may  seem  dreary  ? 

What  though  the  tears  fill  our  eyes  ? 
Her  tiny  feet  were  earth-weary  : 

Now  she  has  gone  to  the  skies. 

Plant  ye  the  locust-tree  o'er  her; 

There  let  the  violet  wave, 
Every  thing  transient  and  lovely 

Grow  o'er  her  tear-watered  grave. 


LITTLE    EVA.  149 

There  let  the  first  sunlight  glimmer ; 

There  let  the  last  sunbeam  rest, 
And  the  pale,  silent  moon  shine  upon  it, 

Like  a  "smile  from  the  land  of  the  blest." 


THE    SOLDIER'S   DEATH. 

THEY  bore  him  to  a  cool  and  grassy  place, 
So     motionless     they     almost     deemed     him 

.dead ; 

And  fanned  with  tender  care  the  pallid  face, 
And   with    pure    water    bathed    his    drooping 

head, 
Till  his  eyes  opened,  and  a  languid  smile 

Played    round   his  dying    lips ;    and,  when    he 

spoke, 

They  hushed  their  very  breath  to  listen,  while 
That     low,    faint     murmur    on    the    calm    air 

broke. 

150 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH.  151 

"  Comrades,  my  waning  life  is  almost  fled ; 

Death's    dampness   gathers    on    my   brow    and 

cheek, 
And  from  this  gaping  wound  the  bullet  made 

The  crimson  life-blood  oozes  while  I  speak. 
I  shall  be  resting  quietly  ere  long, 

And  shall  not  need  your  love  and  tender  care  : 
Your  hearts  are  valiant,  and  your  arms  are  strong, 

Go  back,  my  comrades!  you  are  needed  there. 

"  But  bear  me  first  to  yonder  grassy  sod, 

Whence  I  can  turn  my  eyes  upon  the  fight. 
Gently,  there  !     Leave  me  now  alone  with  God, 

And  go  you  back  to  battle  for  the  right." 
Then  his  mind  wandered;  and  the  beating  drum, 

The  roar  of  cannon,  and  the  din  of  strife 
Changed  to  familiar,  far-off  sounds  of  home, 

Or  sweet,  low  tones  of  mother,  child,  or  wife. 


152  THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH. 

And  the  receding  battle's  frequent  shocks, 

Softened  by  distance,  coming  on  the  breeze, 
Seemed  to  him  like  the  bleating  of  the  flocks, 

Or  hiveward  murmur  of  the  laden  bees  ; 
Until  there  came  a  mighty  shout  at  length, 

A  cry  that  rose  and  swelled  to  "Victory!" 
And,  opening  his  dim  eyes  with  sudden  strength, 

He  saw  the  foemen's  ranks  divide,  and  fly. 

He  rose ;  he  sat  erect  in  his  own  blood ; 

His  heart  throbbed  joyfully  as  when  a  boy : 
"They  fly!  they  fly!"  he  cried,  and  up  to  God 

His  spirit  passed  on  that  last  shout  of  joy. 
And  so  they  found  him,  when   they  sought  him 

there, 
Lifeless  and  cold  in  that  secluded  place,  — 

The  rigid  fingers  clasped  as  if  in  prayer, 
And  that  last  smile  of  triumph  on  his  face. 


APRIL   DAISIES. 

How  many  thoughts  beyond  her  years, 

That  then  were  all  unheeded, 
We  think  of  now  with  blinding  tears,  — 

Sweet  teaching  that  we  needed! 
Three  happy  years  we  led  her  feet 

Among  life's  thorny  mazes  ; 
The  fourth  we  laid  her  down  to  sleep 

Beneath  the  April  daisies. 

'Tis  well,  and  we  are  reconciled  ; 

For  He  who  gave  the  blossom, 
Who  lent  to  us  our  angel-child, 

Recalled  her  to  his  bosom ; 

'53 


154  APRIL    DAISIES. 

And,  waiting  till  He  calls  for  me 
To  sing  with  her  His  praises, 

I  keep  her  blessed  memory 
Embalmed  in  April  daisies. 


THE   MESSENGER. 

THERE  came  a  messenger  at  early  dawning, 
While  yet  the  stars  shone  bright ; 

Unheralded  by  any  sound  or  warning, 
He  entered  as  of  right. 

I  felt  an  awful  shadow  o'er  the  dwelling, 

And  all  my  blood  grew  chill ; 
My  heart,  with  awful  expectation  swelling, 

Throbbed  once,  and  then  stood  still. 

Through     the    dark     hall    with    folded     pinions 

gliding, 
And  steps  of   noiseless  tread, 

'55 


156  THE    MESSENGER. 

He  entered  where  our  patient  one  lay  wasting, 
And  stood  beside  the  bed. 

The  lamp  burned  dim  ;   the  clock  that   told   the 
hour 

Rang  like  a  funeral  knell ; 
And  from  the  roses,  in  a  fitful  shower, 

The  red  and  white  leaves  fell. 

He  lingered  till  the  shades  of  night  were  banished, 

And  all  the  stars  grew  dim ; 
And,  when  at  last  the  ghostly  presence  vanished, 

Our  loved  one  went  with  him. 

Ah,  well !   the  days  glide  by  us  like  a  shadow, 

The  years  like  moments  flee ; 
Next  time  the  messenger  our  threshold  crosses, 

He'll  come,  perhaps,  for  me. 


LITTLE   NELLIE. 

FOLD  the  tiny  dimpled  hands 

On  the  bosom  pure  and  fair ; 
Softly  smooth  the  shining  bands 

Of   her  dark  and  glossy  hair. 
It  is  hard  to  give  her  up, 

Young,  and,  oh,  so  passing  fair ! 
Very  bitter  is  the  cup  ; 

Heavy  is  the  grief  to  bear. 

Two  short  summers  closed  her  eyes, 
Of   her  home  the  life  and  light ; 

Now  as  still  and  cold  she  lies 
As  a  marble  statue  might. 

'57 


158  LITTLE    NELLIE. 

Tears  will  all  unheeded  fall 

On  her  face  for  whom  you  weep ; 

And  the  name  you  vainly  call 

Will  not  break  her  dreamless  sleep. 

Yet  'tis  nothing  but  the  form 

That  you  lay  beneath  the  sod  ; 
For,  beyond  earth's  every  storm, 

Little  Nellie  lives  with  God. 
She  is  one  of   that  vast  throng 

That  the  nearest  dwell  to  Him, 
And  she  lisps  the  tuneful  song 

Of   the  saints  and  cherubim. 

Little  Nellie,  called  so  soon 

In  thy  childhood's  sinless  years, 

Watch  o'er  us  that  linger  on 
In  this  world  of   sin  and  tears ; 


LITTLE    NELLIE. 

For  we  know  not  whether  late 
Or  ere  long  our  time  shall  be  ; 

Plead  for  us  at  Mercy's  gate, 
That  we  soon  may  follow  thee. 


IN    MEMORIAM.' 

CAN  this  be   death  ?     It    seems    scarcely  a   min 
ute 
Since  these  closed  eyes  looked   fondly  in    my 

own, 
And    these    pale    lips,    sealed   with    Death's   icy 

signet, 

Spoke  with  their  wonted,  kind,  familiar  tone. 
Look !    even  yet  a  smile  upon  them  lingers, 

Like  a  radiance  from  the  unseen   land ; 
'Tis  but  a  moment  since  these  rigid  fingers 
Returned  the  pressure  of  my  clasping  hand. 

1  Orville  W.  Priest  died  June  20,  1865. 
1 60 


IX    MEMORIAM.  l6l 

Yet  thou  art  gone.     Vain  is  our  bitter  weeping : 

Tears  fall  unheeded  on  thy  marble  breast ; 
Our  sorrow  troubles  not  thy  quiet  sleeping ; 

Our  voices  break  not  in  upon  thy  rest. 
Vain  were  the  prayers  of  father  or  of  mother ; 

For    a    hand    beckoned    that    we     could    not 

see  : 
Oh,  had  it  been  but  possible,  my  brother, 

God  knows  how  gladly  I  had  died  for  thee ! 

How  shall  I  miss  thee  !    When  around  the  table 

At  eve  we  gather,  who  can  fill  thy  place  ? 
I  shall  glance  up  from  poem  or  from  fable 

To  meet  no  answering  smile  upon  thy  face. 
If  at  our  lonely  meals  I  raise  my  eyelids, 

I  shall  behold  an  ever-vacant  chair  : 
At  morning  and  at  noontide  and  at  evening, 

My  brother,  I  shall  miss  thee  everywhere. 


1 62  IN    MEMORIAM. 

Yet  fare  thee  well !     Thy  young  life  fitly  closes 

• 

On  the  bright  morning  of  this  perfect  day : 
We    lay    thee    down    beneath ,  the    sweet    June 

roses ; 
For  thou  wert   pure   and   brief-lived,  even   as 

they. 
Sleep  sweet,  our  beloved  !    Much  has  been  spared 

thee 

Of  this  world's  conflicts,  pain,  and  bitter  woe, 
And  some  time,  in  the  land  of  the  hereafter, 
Why  thou  wert  taken  from  us  we  shall  know. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

'Tis  hard  to  see  our  loved  ones  die ; 
'Tis  hard  to  watch  the  failing  breath, 
To  see  the  dear  eyes  close  in  death, 

To  speak  and  win  no  kind  reply. 

And  well  I  know  'tis  harder  still 
To  lay  the  precious  form  away, 
To  moulder  back  to  common  clay, 

And  feel  no  rising  of  the  will. 

So,  when  to-day  I  stood  before 

The  coffin  where  your  darling  slept, 
I  did  not  wonder  that  you  wept, 

For  my  own  eyes  were  running  o'er. 

163 


164  IN    MEMORIAM. 

And  yet  I  wept  not  for  the  dead ! 

How  could  I  weep  for  one  who  stands 

Among  the  shining  angel-bands 
t 

With  life's  bright  crown  upon  his  head  ? 

I  wept  for  those  who  loved  him  so, 
Whose  life  was  in  his  being  bound, 
Whose  very  heartstrings  bound  around 

The  little  form  laid  cold  and  low. 

Ah,  tender  parents !   while  you  weep 
To-night  above  the  tiny  bed 
Where  rests  no  more  the  sunny  head, 

The  angels  hush  him  to  his  sleep. 

And  though  life  seems  a  weary  load, 
And  home  an  empty,  joyless  place, 
Without  the  sunshine  of  his  face, 

Can  you  not  trust  your  child  with  God  ? 


IN    MEMORIAM.  165 

O  mourning  parents  !  dry  your  eyes, 
And  follow  where  his  small  white  hand 
Is  beckoning  upward  to  that  land 

Where  love  immortal  never  dies. 


THE   LOST  CHILD. 

THEY  sought  her  in  the  field  and  grove, 
Where'er  they  thought  her  feet  might  rove, 
Exploring  every  nook  and  cove ; 

And  down  within  the  shady  dell, 
Where  the  wild  lily  hung  its  bell, 
And  filled  the  air  with  pleasant  smell  ; 

And  where  wild  rose  and  ivy  made 
Alternate  streaks  of   sun  and  shade, 
And  the  light  chestnut-tassels  swayed. 

And  where  the  pale,  sweet  May  pinks  grew, 
And  violets  opened  eyes  of   blue, 

Weeping  bright  drops  of   honey-dew. 
166 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  l6/ 

But  all  in  vain  !     Then  some  one  said, 

"  The  river  winds  along  its  bed, 

Through  meadows  blossomed  white  and  red, — 

"Perhaps  she  has  wandered  there."     All  feet 

Were  turned  this  last  retreat, 

Where  they  might  hope  the  child  to  meet. 

And  one  along  the  river  side, 

On  white  sand  left  there  by  the  tide, 

The  prints  of   tiny  feet  espied  ; 

And  stooping  down  with  straining  sight, 
And  eyes  hand-shaded  from  the  light, 
Caught  a  faint  gleam  of   something  white. 

He  raised  it  with  a  trembling  hand, 

And  drew  it  heavily  to  land, 

And  laid  the  dead  child  on  the  sand. 


i68* 


THE    LOST    CHILD. 


The  blue  eyes  had  a  stony  glare, 
And  the  long,  golden,  curling  hair 
Lay  dripping  on  the  shoulders  bare ; 

And  in  the  tiny,  dimpled  hand 
Wild  violets  of   the  meadow-land 
Still  by  the  rigid  fingers  spanned. 

Then  home  the  lifeless  form  they  bore : 

The  mother  met  them  at  the  door 

Those  pattering  feet  might  cross  no  more. 

And  there  were  sobs  and  softening  sighs, 
And  gushing  tears  from  many  eyes, 
And  whispered  words  and  low  replies. 

The  father  sat  like  one  amazed ; 
Nor  once  his  heavy  eyelids  raised, 
But  ever  on  the  pale  corpse  gazed ; 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  169 

And  to  the  pastor's  words  of   hope, 
Replied,  "  I  cannot  give  her  up ; 
I  cannot  drink  the  bitter  cup. 

"  God  knows  how  dear  she  was  to  me, 

My  child,  my  darling  Rosalie ! 

Oh,  would  that  I  were  dead,  like  thee ! " 

Night  came,  —  a  night  of   cloudless  calm, 
With  starry  eyes  and  breath  of   balm  ; 
But  beauty  had  no  power  to  charm. 

Then  with  the  dead  hand  in  his  own, 
Whose  touch  was  colder  than  the  stone, 
He  bent  the  knee  to  pray  alone. 

And,  lo  !   the  clouds  of   grief   were  gone ; 
Faith  once  more  triumphed  on  her  throne : 
Her  full  heart  said,  "  Thy  will  be  dene ! 


I/O  THE    LOST    CHILD. 

"  This  form  is  nothing  but  the  clay, 
Through  which  my  darling  winged  her  way 
To  purer  air  and  brighter  day. 

"  What  though  the  casket  must  decay  ? 
The  Lord  hath  given,  and  taken  away : 
Blest  be  his  holy  name  for  aye ! " 

Full  on  him  shone  the  moonbeams  fair, 
And  on  the  dead  child's  golden  hair, 
And  rested  like  a  halo  there. 


ELEGIAC    LINES. 

SHE  was  too  fair,  too  sweet  a  flower,1 
To  live  in  a  dark  world  like  this  ; 

Her  heavenly  Father  took  her  home 
To  his  abode  of   purest  bliss. 

She  wished  to  go  :   she  longed  to  greet 
The  loved  and  lost^of   other  days, 

To  tune  her  voice  in  chorus  sweet, 

And  swell  the  ceaseless  song  of  praise. 

We  cannot  mourn,  nor  wish  her  back 
To  tread  life's  path  with  us  again ; 

1  Laura  Jane  Johnson,  aged  eighteen  years,  nine  months. 


I'72  ELEGIAC    LINES. 

Her  spirit  longed  to  soar  above : 

'Twas  sweet  to  live  ;  to  die  was  gain. 

Now  she  has  gained  a  brighter  land, 
And  death's  cold  stream  is  past ; 

Hers  are  the  joys  at  God's  right  hand, 
That  shall  forever  last. 


THE   SNOW. 

How  lightly  and  softly  and  pure  it  falls, 
Covering  the  earth  with  a  mantle  fair, 

Robing  even  the  brown  stone  walls 

With  ermine  a  king  might  be  proud  to  wear . 

And  the  brave  old  evergreen  trees  that  mark 

The  distant  hills  with  their  outline  dark, 

Whiter  and  whiter  hourly  grow, 

Till  they  bend  'neath  their  weight  of  fleecy  snow. 

Sitting  beside  my  window  low, 

Through  the  flakes  that  fall  like  a  curtain  thin, 
I  watch  the  gradual  growth  of   the  snow 

O'er  mounds  where  my  last  year's  flowers  have 
been  ; 

173 


174  THE  SNOW. 

Growing  and  growing  silently, 
Till  the  bare,  brown  stalks  are  all  I  see, — 
Stalks  that  beneath  the  sun  and  showers 
Budded  and  burst  into  perfect  flowers. 

Then  I  think  of   a  mound  in  the  churchyard  old, 

Where  once  in  the  spring  time  of   long  ago 
A  bud  of   beauty,  all  pale  and  cold, 

Was  laid  away  'neath  the  melting  snow. 
There  were  tears  in  my  father's  eyes  that  clay, 
And  my  mother  sobbed  o'er  the  beautiful  clay ; 
Yet  the  mound  over  which  my  myrtle  creeps 
Is  larger  than  that  where  my  brother  sleeps. 

It  was  "only  an  infant,"  the  neighbors  said, 
As  they  gazed  on  the  tiny  features  fair: 

Could  they  dream  of  the  light  that  fled 

With  the  little  form  that  was  sleeping  there  ? 


THE    SNOW.  175 

Happy  .themselves,  could  they  dimly  guess 
At  the  pride  and  beauty  and  loveliness, 
The  world-wide  hope,  and  the  springing  joy, 
That  was  buried  up  with  the  only  boy  ? 

Ah,  well !    I  know  that  the  spring  will  come, 
With  its    soft,  blue   skies,  and    its  warm,  glad 

showers ; 

And  the  birds  will  sing,  and  the  bees  will  hum, 
And  these  bare,  brown  stalks  will  be  gay  with 

flowers  : 

So  the  little  form  that  with  tears  and  sighs 
Was  buried  away  from  our  mortal  eyes, 
Out  of   that  narrow  grave  shall  rise 
To  bloom  in  the  garden  of   paradise. 


OUR  LILY.1 

WE  had  a  little  lily  bud, 

A  bud  of  promise  rare, 
A  blessing  from  the  hand  of  God  : 

We  treasured  her  with  care. 

'Tvvas  joy  to  watch  her  infant  mind, 

And  teach  her  lips  to  speak  : 
We  feared  lest  even  heaven's  wind 

Should  roughly  fan  her  cheek. 

Two  happy  summers  did  her  tiny  feet 
Walk  life's  rough  path  with  ours, 

1  Lines  written  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  C.  L.  Carter  on  the  death  of  their 
only  daughter. 

176 


OUR    LILY.  177 

And  then  we  laid  her  down  to  sleep 
Beneath  the  fading  flowers. 

Oh  !  it  was  hard  to  give  her  up, 

Our  little  cherished  one ; 
'Twas  hard  to  drink  the  bitter  cup, 

And  say,  "Thy  will  be  done." 

And  yet  to  cheer  us  in  our  woe 
This  precious  thought  is  given,  — 

We  have  one  darling  still  below, 
But  one  is  safe  in  heaven. 


PATRIOTIC    POEMS. 


RALLYING   SONG. 

COME,  rally  around  the  old  standard ! 

Let  our  banner  float  out  on  the  breeze ! 
For,  thanks  be  to  God  and  our  pilot, 

The  ship  still  outrides  the  rough  seas. 
Though  the  wind  whistles  shrill  though  her  cord 
age, 

And  the  sails  in  the  tempest  may  rip, 
We've  faith  in  the  skill  of  the  helmsman 

Who  stands  at  the  wheel  of  the  ship. 

We  know  that  his  faith  is  the  surest ; 
We  know  that  his  courage  is  tried, 

iSi 


l82  RALLYING    SONG. 

And  his  honor  was  ever  the  purest : 
What  more  could  we  ask  of  our  guide  ? 

When  the  storm  gathered  darkest  and  nearest, 
No  faltering  fell  from  his  lips  : 

Then  a  cheer  for  old  "  Abram,"  the  pilot 
Who  stands  at  the  helm  of  our  ship. 

The  storm  mutters  yet  to  the  southward, 

And  the  sky  is  o'erclouded  with  gloom ; 
For  Heaven's  sake,  no  half-hearted  pilot, 

Who  will  let  us  drift  on  to  our  doom ! 
The  breakers  still  yawn  to  ingulf  us  : 

If  the  bark  from  her  anchorage  slip, 
Then  give  up  the  helm  to  old  "  Abram  ;  " 

We  know  that  his  heart's  in  the  ship. 

Our  enemies  hate  him  and  fear  him  : 
Their  hope  even  now  groweth  dim, 


RALLYING    SONG.  183 

And  they  cry  out,  in  hopeless  despairing, 
"  Give  us  any,  ay,  any  but  him  ! " 

He  has  borne  up  our  flag  in  disaster, 
And  when  victory  perched  on  its  tip; 

Then  give  up  the  helm  to  old  "Abram," 
Who  knows  all  the  ropes  of  the  ship. 

He  will  carry  our  ship  past  the  breakers ; 

He  will  keep  the  flag  free  of  all  stain ; 
He  has  honored  the  trust  that  we  gave  him  : 

We  know  we  can  trust  him  again. 
Then  rally  once  more  round  his  standard, 

And  let  it  ring  loud  from  each  lip, 
"  A  cheer  for  our  true-hearted  pilot ! 

We'll  give  him  the  helm  of  the  ship." 


A  VOICE  FROM  "OUR  BOYS." 

WE  left  our  homes  and  hearthstones 

Three  weary  years  ago  : 
'Neath  the  banner  of  our  country 

We  marched  to  meet  the  foe. 
There  were  hearts  that  ached  to  breaking, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  rain  : 
Do  those  heartaches  count  as  nothing  ? 

Were  those  tear-drops  wept  in  vain  ? 

Mid  dangers,  toil,  and  perils 
Such  as  you  may  never  know, 

We  have  stood,  a  wall  of  valor, 

Twixt  your  hearthstones  and  the  foe. 


A    VOICE    FROM    "OUR    BOYS."  185 

We  have  learned  to  smile  at  danger ; 

We  have  learned  to  mock  at  pain  : 
But  we  ask  you,  O  our  brothers, 

Have  we  borne  these  things  in  vain  ? 

We  have  borne  our  starry  banner 

Over  heaps  of  our  own  dead ; 
Where  the  shot  rained  thickest,  fastest, 

We  have  followed  if  it  led. 
And,  though  battle-scarred  and  tattered, 

It  has  never  known  a  stain  : 
Will  ye  dare  to  tell  us,  brothers, 

We  have  kept  it  pure  in  vain  ? 

By  the  victories  we  have  won  you, 
By  the  laurels  we  have  earned, 

By  the  homes  we've  left  behind  us, 
By  the  comforts  we  have  spurned, 


1 86  A    VOICE    FROM    "OUR    BOYS." 

By  the  bones  that  bleach  unnumbered 
On  each  trampled  battle-plain, 

We  plead  with  you,  our  brothers, 
Let  us  suffer  not  in  vain  ! 

By  our  marches  and  our  battles, 

By  the  blood  that  we  have  shed, 
By  the  prisons  where  we  languished, 

By  the  memory  of  our  dead, 
By  the  hardships  we  have  suffered, — 

Fiercest  hunger,  thirst,  and  pain, — 
We  ask  you,  men  and  brothers, 

Is  our  sacrifice  in  vain  ? 

Hark !  Vermont's  snow-covered  summits 
Send  a  ringing  sound  of  cheer, 

And  from  Maine's  dark,  waving  forests 
Comes  an  echo  loud  and  clear : 


A    VOICE    FROM    "OUR    BOYS."  l8/ 

"  Fear  not,  faint  not !  we  are  coming " 

(So  those  joyful  echoes  say) 
"  To  the  music  of  the  Union : 

Abram  leads  us!  —  clear  the  way!" 


GOD  BLESS  OUR  SOLDIER  BOYS. 

THE  fields  are  white  and  spotless ;  the  chill 
north-wester  blows  ; 

The  winter  skies  hang  heavy  beneath  their 
weight  of  snow. 

We  sit  beside  the  casement  and  watch  the 
gathering  storm, 

And  wonder  if  our  soldiers  in  their  canvas 
tents  are  warm  ; 

And,  when  at  eve  we  gather  around  the  hearth 
stone  bright, 

Each  heart  sends  up  a  prayer,  "God  keep  our 
soldier  boys  to-night !  " 

1 88' 


GOD  BLESS  OUR  SOLDIER  BOYS.       189 

They   left    us    in    the    spring   time    and   in    the 

summer's  glow ; 
All    through    the    lonely    autumn    we    saw   our 

loved  ones  go. 
From     all     our    noisy    workshops,    from     every 

bustling    street, 
We    miss    the    kindly  faces    that  we    were  wont 

to  meet ; 
They've    gone    to    blot    out    treason,  —  to  battle 

for  the  right : 
We   send   them  with   our  blessing,  —  God   bless 

our  boys  to-night  ! 


Some    led    the   charge   at    Newbern,    when    the 

rebel  columns  broke  ; 
Some    at   Ball's   Bluff   fought    nobly,  and    some 

at  Roanoke ; 


I9O       GOD  BLESS  OUR  SOLDIER  BOYS. 

Some  to  New  Orleans  followed  the  flag  of 
stripes  and  stars ; 

Some  won  a  Southern  prison,  and  some  im 
mortal  scars. 

They  have  proved  themselves  true  heroes  in 
many  a  bloody  fight ; 

Oft  tried,  but  ne'er  found  wanting,  —  God  bless 
them  all  to-night  ! 


There's  grief  in  every  household ;  our  land  with 

blood  is  red  ; 
There's  waiting  for  the  absent,  and  weeping  for 

the  dead. 
We    mourn    our    fallen'   heroes,    but    the    living 

V 

claim  our  care ; 

We 'bless  them  at  our  firesides;  we  name  them 
in  our  prayer ; 


GOD    BLESS    OUR    SOLDIER    BOYS.  IQI 

God   guide  them  through  all  danger !    God  keep 

them  in  the  fight  ! 
Where'er  they  light  their  camp-fires,  God   bless 

our  boys  to-night ! 


THE   COMING   OF   FREEDOM. 

LONG  time  the  world  in  darkness  lay 
Beneath  Oppression's  iron  sway ; 
And,  e'en  where  Freedom  once  abode, 
Her  altar-fire  but  dimly  glowed. 
Earth  waited  long,  with  listening  ear, 
When  sudden,  like  a  thunder-stroke, 
A  deep  voice  through  the  silence  broke, 
"  Make  way  for  Freedom  !  " 

Make  way  for  Freedom  !   for  she  comes 
With  flying  flags  and  beating  drums, 
And  her  old  keepers  seek  in  vain 
To  weld  anew  her  broken  chain. 
192 


THE    COMING    OF    FREEDOM.  193 

She  holds  no  parley  with  her  foes, 
But  right  and  left  deals  sturdy  blows, 
And  vindicates  her  ancient  fame 
Mid  cannons'  roar  and  blood  and  flame : 
Make  way  for  Freedom  ! 

She  stoops  not  now  to  plead  her  cause 
Through  the  weak  voice  of   trampled  laws ; 
Lo,  in  the  Ethiop's  dusky  hand 
She  lays  her  keen  and  flashing  brand, 
Points  where  her  starry  banners  wave, 
And  bids  him  be  no  more  a  slave  ; 
Arid,  as  her  hosts  go  sweeping  by, 
His  voice  takes  up  their  battle-cry, 
"  Make  way  for  Freedom  !  " 

Oh,  say  not  that  our  toil  is  vain ! 
We  build  anew  fair  Freedom's  fame ; 


194  THE    COMING    OF    FREEDOM. 

We  lay  the  corner  stone  with  tears ; 
But,  gazing  far  down  future  years, 
We  see  the  finished  temple  stand 
Towering  to  heaven,  complete  and  grand, 
And  through  its  wide  and  ample  door 
The  nations  thronging  evermore 
To  worship  Freedom. 

Then  who  would  weakly  hesitate  ? 
The  passing  hours  are  big  with  fate. 
Will  not  each  patriot  heart  reply, 
"It  is  thy  voice!    Lord,  here  am  I." 
My  country,  thine  shall  be  my  fate ; 
My  all  to  thee  I  consecrate ; 
Gladly  I  draw  the  sword  for  thee, 
And  fight,  bleed,  die,  if   need  there  be, 
"For  thee  and  Freedom." 


OUR   FLAG. 

I'LL  sing  my  country's  glorious  flag, 

The  proud  old  flag  of  yore, 
That  in  the  days  long  since  gone  by 

Our  patriot  fathers  bore. 
The  dear  old  flag,  long  may  it  wave ! 

'Tvvas  bought  with  blood  and  scars,  — 
The  legacy  our  fathers  gave : 

God  bless  the  stripes  and  stars  ! 

What  though,  obscured  in  treason's  night, 
Some  stars  have  dimmed  their  rays, 

And,  wandering  like  a  meteor's  light, 
Shot  madly  from  their  place  ? 

'95 


196  OUR    FLAG. 

What  though  above  the  fertile  fields,       • 

'Neath  our  old  ensign  won, 
The  broad  "  Palmetto "  flaunts  the  breeze, 

Beneath  a  Southern  sun  ? 

Not  ours  the  hand  that  drew  the  sword 

The  first  red  drops  that  shed  ; 
The  guilt,  the  damning  guilt  of   blood 

Be  on  our  brother's  head  ; 
But  war's  red  flag  at  length  unfurled, 

We  who  have  borne  so  long 
Will  teach  our  brethren  and  the  world 

That  patient  hearts  are  strong. 

Not  ours  the  hand  that  snapped  the  chain, 

And  drew  its  limbs  asunder : 
We  strove  to  stay  the  storm  in  vain 

When  first  we  heard  its  thunder,  — 


OUR    FLAG.  197 

And  history  all  time  shall  tell 

How  long  they  spurned  our  prayers, — 
That  we  might  still  be  friends,  and  dwell 

In  peace  with  them  and  theirs. 

We've  risen  in  our  might  at  length  : 

Our  country's  foe  shall  feel 
An  outraged  nation's  giant  strength,  — 

The  strength  of   Northern  steel. 
No  more  we  seek  to  mend  the  chain ; 

No  more  we  woo  with  prayers : 
Our  cannon  on  the  battle-plain 

Shall  thunder  back  to  theirs. 

The  Old  Bay  State  has  risen  in  might : 

Her  arm  is  bared  once  more  ; 
Her  war-cry  ringing  through  the  fight, 

"  Remember  Baltimore  !  " 


198  OUR    FLAG. 

No  time  for  weak  or  coward  words, 

No  time  for  idle  breath  : 
The  man  that  draws  a  traitor's  sword 

Shall  meet  a  traitor's  death. 

"  Our  flag,"  thou  hope  of   every  land, 

Thou  pride  of   every  sea, 
Our  wealth,  our  strength,  our  heart's  last  blood, 

Shall  all  be  given  to  thee. 
Undimmed,  unconquered,  thou  shalt  wave 

In  the  red  light  of   Mars, 
Till  the  last  freeman  finds  a  grave 

Beneath  the  stripes  and  stars. 


KISS   ME,    MOTHER,    AND    LET   ME   GO 

HAVE  you  heard  the  news  that  I  heard  to-day.  — 

The  news  that  trembles  on  every  lip? 
The  sky  is  darker  again,  they  say, 

And  breakers  threaten  the  good  old  ship. 
Our  country  calls  on  her  sons  again 

To  strike  in  her  name  at  a  dastard  foe  : 
She  asks  for  six  hundred  thousand  men  ; 

And  I  would  be  one,  mother :  let  me  go. 

• 

The  love  of  country  was  born  with  me  : 

I  remember  how  my  young  heart  would  thrill 
When  I  used  to  sit  on  my  grandame's  knee, 

And  list  to  the  story  of  Bunker  Hill. 

199 


2OO          KISS    ME,    MOTHER,    AND    LET    ME    GO. 

Life  gushed  out  there  in  a  rich  red  flood  : 
My  grandsire  fell  in  that  fight,  you  know. 

Would  you  have  me  shame  the  brave  old  blood  ? 
Nay,  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 

Our  flag,  the  flag  of  our  hope  and  pride, 

With  its  stars  and  stripes  and  its  field  of  blue, 
Is  mocked,  insulted,  torn  down,  defiled, 

And  trampled  upon  by  the  rebel  crew ; 
And  England  and  France  look  on  and  sneer, 

"  Ha  !   queen  of  the  earth  thou  art  fallen  low  !  " 
Earth's  down-trodden  millions  weep  and  fear : 

So  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 

Under  the  burning  Southern  skies 

Our  brothers  languish  in  heart-sick  pain  ; 

They  turn  to  us  with  their  pleading  eyes  : 
0  mother !  say,  shall  they  turn  in  vain  ? 


KISS    ME,    MOTHER,    AND    LET    ME    GO.          2OI 

Their  ranks  are  thinning  from  sun  to  sun, 
Yet  bravely  they  hold  at  bay  the  foe : 

Shall  we  let  them  die  there  one  by  one  ? 
Nay,  kiss  me,  mother,  and  let  me  go. 

Can  you  selfishly  cling  to  your  household  joys, 

Refusing  the  smallest  tithe  to  yield, 
While  thousands  of  mothers  are  sending  boys 

Beloved  as  yours  to  the  battle-field  ? 
Can  you  see  my  country  call  in  vain, 

And  restrain  my  arm  from  the  needful  blow  ? 
Not   so ;   though   your   heart    should    break  with 
pain, 

You  will  kiss  me,  bless  me,  and  bid  me  go. 


FIGHT   FOR   THE   FLAG. 

FIGHT    for   the   flag    menaced    now   with   pollu- 
.   tion  ; 

Fight  for  the  freedom  of  country  and  State ; 
Strike  for  the  rights  that  the  old  Constitution 

Gave  to  the  meanest  as  well  as  the  great ; 
Kneel  while  our  banner  floats  out  in  its  beauty ; 

Swear  to  defend  it  to  life's  latest  breath, 
Then  to  the  field  of  your  honor  and  duty 

March     with     the    battle-cry,     "  Freedom     or 
Death ! " 


A   BALLAD   OF   THE   WAR. 

"  MY  arm  ? "     I  lost  it  at  Cedar  Mountain. 

Ah,  little  one !  that  was  a  dreadful  fight ; 
For  brave  blood  flowed  like  a  summer  fountain, 

And  the  cannon  roared  till  the  fall  of  night. 
Nay,  nay  !4fryour    question    has    done    no    harm, 
dear, 

Though  it  woke  for  a  moment  a  thrill  of  pain ; 
For,  whenever  I    look   at   my  stump  of   an  arm 
here, 

I  seem  to  be  living  that  day  again. 

A  cloud  of  sulphurous  haze  hung  o'er  us 
As  prone  we  lay  in  the  trampled  mire  ; 

203 


2O4  A    BALLAD    OF    THE    WAR. 

Shells  burst  above  us,  and  right  before  us 
A  rebel  battery  belched  forth  fire. 

All  at  once  to  the  front  our  colonel  galloped, 
His' form  through  the  smoke  looking  dim  and 
large  : 

"You  see  that  battery,  boys!"  he  shouted: 
"  We're  ordered  to  take  it.     Ready  !   charge  !  " 


What  a  thrill  I  felt  as  the  word  wa%given  ! 

At  once  to  his  feet  each  soldier  leapt ; 
One  long,  wild  shout  went  up  to  heaven, 

Then    down    on    the    foe    like    the    wind    we 

swept. 
Each  fought  that  day  for  his  country's  honor : 

We  gained  the  edge  of  a  slippery  bank  ; 
I  drove  from  his  post  a  rebel  gunner, 

And  then  —     The  rest  is  a  perfect  blank. 


A    BALLAD    OF    THE    WAR.  2O5 

What  need  to  tell  of  the  days  that  followed, 

Each  dragging  painfully,  slowly  by, 
Till,  wearied  out  by  my  constant  pleading, 

They  sent  me  home,  as  they  thought,  to  die  ? 
My  sire  was  dead,  and  my  own  loved  mother 

Was  wasting  away  with  toil  and  care  ; 
I'd  a  little  sister  and  feeble  brother ; 

And  I  —  I  could  be  but  a  burden  there. 

And  so  this  peddler's  trunk  I  bought  me ; 

Filled  it  with  needles,  pins,  tape,  and  thread, 
Housewife's  stores,  as  my  mother  taught  me, 

And  I  sell  them  to  win  my  daily  bread. 
When  the  frost  on  the  fields  lies  still  and  hoary, 

My  way  through  the  village  streets  I  take ; 
My  empty  coat-sleeve  tells  its  story, 

And    they're    kind    to    me    for    the    old   flag's 
sake. 


2O6  A    BALLAD    OF    THE    WAR. 

It  was  not  regret  that  made  me  falter, 

Nor  sorrow  that  made  my  eye  grow  dim  : 
I  offered  all  on  my  country's  altar, 

And  she  was  pleased  to  accept  a  limb. 
Maimed,  but  yet  to  regrets  a  stranger, 

The  thought  that  gives  me  the  keenest  pain 
Is  this,  —  were  my  country  once  more  in  danger, 

I  never  could  fight  in  her  ranks  again. 


BE   TRUE   TO   THE  FLAG   OF   THE 
UNION. 

[JULY  22,  1861.] 

NOT  with  bright  garlands  of   the  graceful  bay 

We  twine  to-day  our  banner's  drooping  folds, 

But  wreathed  with  sable  hanging  like  a  pall 

Over  its  field  of   blue,  and  shutting  out 

Its  stars,  even  as  from  so  many  homes 

Hope's  star  to-day  has  faded  ;  let  us  go 

To  hang  the  cypress  o'er  our  warriors'  tombs  : 

Ah  me !  methinks  'twas  only  yesterday 
That    all    the    calm,    blue    air    was     rent    with 
cheers, 

207 


2O8     I3E    TRUE    TO    THE    FLAG    OF    THE    UNION. 

And    drums    beat,    banners    waved,    and    music 

played, 

As  they,  our  gallant  and  true-hearted  ones, 
Went  from  us,  bearing  forth  our  country's  flag, 
To  battle  in  our  country's  holy  cause. 
We  looked  upon  them,  brave  and  beautiful, 
And  all    our  hearts  were    stirred  with   love   and 

pride. 

"  Go   forth,"   we    said,    "  O    brothers    dear !    up 
hold 

The  flag  we  love  and  honor!  Heaven  will  smile 
Upon  you  ;  God  will  give  you  victory  ; 
And  we, — whom  force  of  circumstance  compels 
To    stay    behind     you,  —  doubt     not     that     our 

hearts 
Go     forward    with     you ;    doubt    not,    brothers, 

friends, 
That  you  shall  be  remembered. 


BE  TRUE  TO  THE  FLAG  OF  THE  UNION.   2OQ 

From  the  shores 

Of    Maine  to  California  anxious  eyes 
Are  turned  on  you ;  and  knees  that  never  bent, 
And  lips  that  never  opened  yet  to  crave 
Heaven's    blessings    on    themselves,    with   daily 

prayers 

Besiege  the  throne  of   God  in  your  behalf. 
Go  forth,  O  brothers  !  for  ye  cannot  fail. " 

And  so  they  left  us.     Thus  we  sent  them  forth 
To    shame,    defeat,    and    death.     Oh,    we    must 

weep, 

E'en  though  the  victors  gloat  upon  our  tears  ! 
For  Nature  will  o'erleap  the  narrow  bounds 
That  Pride  would  set  her,  and  assert  herself 
In  grief  that  will  have  way  ;  yet  let  them  pause. 
Let  them  not  glory  in  our  grief   too  much  : 
It  bodes  them  little  good.     Appalled  and  stunned, 


2IO  BE  TRUE  TO  THE  FLAG  OF  THE  UNION. 

Borne  down  by  crushing  sorrow  for  our  dead 
Who  lie  unburied  on  Potomac's  shore, 
We  may  be  now ;  but,  when  we  strike  again, 
Let  them  beware !     From  every  crimson  drop 
That  yesterday  our  loved  ones  shed  like  rain 
Goes  up  a  cry  for  vengeance,  and  the  eyes 
That  yet  are  red  with  weeping  have  a  flash 
As  terrible  as  lightning. 

Farewell,  tears ! 

Vain  sorrow  will  not  bring  them  back  to  us  : 
Be  it  ours,  then,  to  avenge  them  ! 


BE   FIRM   IN  BATTLE   FOR   THE 
UNION. 

BROTHERS,  take  this  holy  flag! 

We  can  trust  it  in  your  keeping ; 
Guard  it  ever  with  your  lives, 

Cherish  it  with  love  unsleeping  ; 
And,  if   only  one  should  come 

Back  to  tell  the  bloody  story, 
Let  him  bring  that  banner  home 

Gleaming  with  its  ancient  glory. 

Side  by  side  upon  the  field 

They  have  waved  in  many  a  battle  : 
Bear  it  on  the  battle-field 

Mid  the  wounded  and  the  dying  ; 


212        BE    FIRM    IN    BATTLE    FOR    THE    UNION. 

Make  your  strong  right  arms  its  shield; 

Ever  follow  where  'tis  flying. 
From  their  homes  in  yonder  sky 

Freedom's  sires  are  watching  o'er  you : 
Be  their  names  your  battle-cry 

As  you  drive  the  foe  before  you. 

Never  trail  it  in  defeat, 

Lest  the  world  should  prove  a  scorner 
Life  can  never  more  be  sweet 

That  is  purchased  by  dishonor. 
When  you  stand  before  the  foe, 

Face  to  face  in  line  of  battle, 
E'er  the  first  red  blood-drop  flow, 

Or  begins  the  cannon's  rattle, 
Think  how  we  are  praying  for  you ; 
Know  that  every  lip  would  say, 
Die,  but  suffer  not  dishonor. 


THE   MIDNIGHT   BIVOUAC. 

THE  winter  stars  shine  cold  on  high  ; 

The  hoar-frost  glitters  on  the  ground ; 
The  camp-fires  burn  with  smouldering  light ; 

My  comrades  sleep  around. 

A  full  moon  hangs  above  the  land, 
And  bare  and  black  against  the  sky 

The  blasted  cedars  stand. 

A  hurried  footstep  drawing  near : 

I  hear  his  rifle  click,  and  then 
His  challenge  rings  out  clear,  — 

"  Halt !  who  comes  there  ? "  —  "  A  friend."  —  "  Pass 

Three  steps,  and  give  the  countersign ! " 

213 


214  THE    MIDNIGHT    BIVOUAC. 

"Right!    Pass  on,  friend."    A  quick,  firm  tread 

Goes  ringing  down  the  line. 
Sleep  on,  tired  brothers  !  take  your  rest, 

For  night  is  wearing  fast  away  ; 
The  moon  is  sinking  in  the  west  ; 

The  morn  may  bring  the  fray. 


THE   CAPTAIN'S  LETTER.1 

IN    MEMORIAM. 

I  AM  writing  to  you,  lady,  with  an  aching  heart 

and  brain, 
Knowing  well  that  every  sentence  will  give  you 

bitter  pain  ; 
Will  dim  the  light  within   your  eyes,  and   cloud 

your  brow  with  gloom, 
And  bring  dark  clouds  of  sorrow  to  your  far-off 

peaceful  home. 

1  Written  by  N.  A.  W.  Priest  after  reading  Capt.  Buffum's  letter  to 
me  after  the  death  of  my  husband,  G.  C.  Parker,  November,  1862. — 
CARRIE  L.  R.  PARKER. 

215 


216  THE  CAPTAIN'S  LETTER. 

Knowing  well  the  fearful  anguish  that  will  wring 

your  spirit's  core 
When  you  tell   your  little   daughters   that   their 

father  is  no  more ; 
Full   well,    believe   me,    lady,    do    his    mourning 

comrades  know, 
By  the  sadness   they  experience,   what  must   be 

your  bitter  woe. 


I    was    his    captain,    lady !     'Neath  the  soldier's 

blouse  of  blue 
Never   lived    a   nobler   spirit,  never   throbbed   a 

heart  more  true  ; 
Ever  cheerful  mid    privations,  since    his    soldier 

life  began  ; 
When  the  bugle  called  to  duty,  he  was  ever  in 

the  van  ; 


THE    CAPTAINS    LETTER.  2I/ 

Loving    freedom,  hating   slavery  as   a  wrong   of 

God  accursed  : 
Death    passed   by   meaner  spirits,  and   took   the 

noblest  first. 
True,  he  fell  not  in  the  battle ;  but  no  less   his 

name  shall  stand 
In    the  glorious  list   of   martyrs  who  have   died 

to  save  their  land. 


We  laid  him  down  to  slumber  in  a  deep,  un 
broken  rest, 

Far  from  his  native  valleys,  and  the  hearts  that 
loved  him  best ; 

We  placed  a  simple  headboard  to  mark  the  hal 
lowed  spot, 

And  left  him  there  with  feelings  that  will  never 
be  forgot ; 


218  THE  CAPTAIN'S  LETTER. 

We  buried  him  at  twilight  when  the  sun  had 
sunk  to  rest 

In  his  crimson-curtained  chamber  in  the  brightly 
glowing  west ; 

And,  gliding  with  slow  footsteps  o'er  the  east 
ern  hills  afar, 

Evening  donned  her  cool,  gray  mantle,  and 
pinned  it  with  a  star. 


Rough  was  the  narrow  coffin  that  his  fellow- 
soldiers  bore, 

And  we  laid  him  gently  in  it  in  the  uniform  he 
wore  ; 

The  chaplain  made  a  prayer ;  brief  and  solemn 
words  were  said, 

And  we  fired  a  parting  volley  o'er  the  poor, 
unconscious  head. 


THE  CAPTAIN  S  LETTER.          219 

There  was   little   time   for   mourning,  and    none 

for  idle  show : 
Long   our  march   had   been  and  weary ;  we  had 

farther  yet  to  go. 
We  heard  the  bugle  calling  as  beside 'his  grave 

we  wept, 
And    we    bivouacked    at    midnight    miles    away 

from  where  he  slept. 


Your  grief  is  shared  by  thousands   over  all    our 

bleeding  land  ; 
By    desolated    hearthstones   weeping    wives   and 

children  stand, 
And  gray-haired  parents    m'ourn   and  watch   and 

wait  in  speechless  pain 
For  tidings  from  the  loved  ones  who  will  never 

come  again. 


22O          THE  CAPTAIN  S  LETTER. 

Farewell,  farewell,  dear   lady  !  I  know  how  poor 

and  weak 
Would   be  any  words    of   comfort  that    I    might 

try  to  speak. 
God's  ways  are  dark  and  fearful,  but  he  judgeth 

for  the  best  : 
May  he  take  you  in  his  keeping,  and   give   you 

peace  and  rest ! 


CARRIE. 

I  WAS  sitting  and  thinking  to-night,  Cal, 

Of  days  that  have  passed  away  : 
They  passed  on  the  rapid  wing  of  time, 

And  we  could  not  make  them  stay  ; 
They  were  bright  and  beautiful  days,  Cal, 

And  sorrow  was  but  a  name  : 
It  passed,  and  the  sky  was  blue  and  fair 

As  it  was  before  it  came. 

I  was  sitting  and  thinking  to-night,  Cal, 
Of  the  castles  we  built  in  air  : 

They  were  all  realites  then,  Cal, 
But  frail  although  they  were  fair; 


222  CARRIE. 

And  one  by  one  they  fall,  Cal, 

Before  the  truths  of  life, 
And  our  girlhood's  golden  dreams,  Cal, 

Are  lost  in  care  and  strife. 

Oh  !  life  is  a  weary  way,  Cal, 

Illumed  by  a  flickering  light  ; 
And  well  for  us  if  it  be  not  lost, 

And  we  left  in  shades  of  night. 
Now  do  not  take  this  as  a  "  poem,"  Cal : 

'Tis  only  an  idle  scrawl  ; 
I  had  but  a  minute  before  it  was  penned, 

No  thought  of  writing  at  all. 


A   DREAM    OF   THE   BRAVE. 

"  I  had  a  dream  that  was  not  all  a  dream." 

LAST  night,  when  the  moon  was  setting, 

And  the  day's  last  beam  had  flown, 
Oppressed  with  a  nameless  sadness, 

I  wandered  out  alone ; 
I  sat  me  down  to  ponder 

On  the  trunk  of   a  fallen  tree, 
And  I  saw  a  vision  that  haunts  me  still : 

List !  and  I  will  tell  it  thee. 

Methought  I  stood  near  a  forest, 
Where  I  never  had  been  before ; 

223 


224  A    DREAM    OF    THE    BRAVE. 

I  could  see  a  winding  river 
Lapping  a  broad,  green  shore. 

Many  a  sail  was  gliding 
Silently  down  the  stream  ; 

And  dotting  the  hills  and  valleys, 
I  could  see  the  white  tents  gleam. 

Then  out  of  the  gloomy  forest, 

Where  I  silently  stood  apart, 
Came  strains  of   solemn  music 

That  thrilled  to  my  very  heart. 
Sad  and  dirge-like  and  mournful, 

It  swelled  to  the  summer  skies, 
And  touched  a  fountain  of   tear-drops 

That  welled  up  into  my  eyes. 

Nearer  it  came,  and  nearer ; 

And  methought  I  turned  my  head, 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    BRAVE.  225 

And  saw  a  band  of   soldiers 

9 
Bringing  a  brother  dead. 

Steadily  moved  they  onward 

Through  the  forest's  checkered  shade ; 
And  still  I  watched  their  coming, 

And  the  solemn  music  played. 

They  passed  me,  but  still  I  lingered  ; 

They  climbed  to  the  hill-top's  crown, 
And  then  at  their  leader's  signal 

They  laid  their  dead  comrade  down. 
And  there  by  the  winding  river, 

Close  to  its  shining  wave, 
They  broke  the  green  turf   of   summer, 

And  hollowed  a  narrow  grave. 

They  were  bearded,  rough,  and  sunburnt, 
And  their  eyes  looked  fierce  and  wild ; 


226  A    DREAM    OF    THE    BRAVE. 

But  they  lifted  the  dead  one  gently, 

9 

As  a  mother  might  lift  her  child. 
They  could  not  give  him  a  coffin  ; 

But  they  smoothed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  planted  our  starry  banner 

Over  his  slumbering  head. 

No  fond  sister  or  mother 

Pressed  for  the  parting  look ; 
No  kind  father  or  brother 

In  the  solemn  rite  partook. 
Only  those  few  tried  comrades 

Stood  with  uncovered  head, 
And  the  tears  from  their  rough  cheeks 

Dropped  on  the  quiet  dead  ; 

Dropped  on  the  curls  of  auburn ; 
Dropped  on  the  close-shut  eyes, 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    BRAVE.  22/ 

And  the  face  in  its  boyish  beauty 
Upturned  to  the  mocking  skies. 

The  notes  of   a  distant  bugle 
Came  faint  on  the  passing  air : 

So  they  gave  him  a  parting  volley, 
And  left  him  to  slumber  there. 

You  smile,  but  your  eyes  are  filling : 

"  It  was  only  a  dream,"  you  say. 
Ah  !  but  the  thing  I  dreamed  of 

Is  happening  every  day. 
In  swamp  and  forest  and  valley, 

And  down  by  the  river's  waves, 
Even  now,  while  you  sit  there  smiling, 

They  are  making  our  soldiers'  graves. 


MOONLIGHT. 

I  HATE  the  beautiful  moonlight 

That  is  falling  so  white  and  still 
On  the  dim  and  shadowy  forest, 

And  the  brown  and  barren  hill. 
It  haunts  me  with  vague  misgivings, 

And  restless,  unquiet  fears, 
And  fills  my  heart  with  a  sadness 

That  lieth  too  deep  for  tears. 

For  I  think  of   a  far-off   camp-ground 
That  is  bathed  in  this  soft,  rich  light ; 

I  can  see  the  moon's  rays  gleaming 
On  the  tents  of   snowy  white ; 
228 


MOONLIGHT.  22Q 

But  all  is  still  and  peaceful 

As  a  city  of   the  dead, 
Save  when  the  hush  is  broken 

By  the  sentinels'  measured  tread. 

I  busy  my  mind  by  daylight 

In  a  thousand  useless  ways ; 
I  smile  at  my  children's  prattle, 

Or  join  in  their  merry  plays  ; 
But,  when  the  shadows  of   evening 

Gather  around  my  home, 
I  find  myself   listening,  waiting, 

For  a  step  that  will  not  come. 

I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening, 

And  sit  by  the  children's  bed, 
While,  with  soft  palms  pressed  together,. 

The  childish  prayer  is  said. 


23O  MOONLIGHT. 

But  my  heart  sinks  cold  within  me, 
And  the  tear-drop  dims  my  sight, 

When  my  little  'Lizzie,  asks  me, 
"  Will  my  father  come  to-night  ? " 

"Nay,  not  to-night,  my  darling," 

My  tremulous  voice  replies ; 
And  a  transient  shadow  hovers 

In  the  depth  of   her  violet  eyes. 
To  her  'tis  an  oft-told  answer, 

Forgotten  as  soon  as  heard ; 
But  my  little  womanly  Alice 

Will  never  forget  a  word. 

God  knows  I  would  not  recall  him, 
No,  not  if   my  heart  should  break : 

I  have  given  him  to  his  country 
For  our  perilled  freedom's  sake. 


MOONLIGHT. 

But,  alas  !   for  the  homes  made  lonely, 
And  the  hearts  left  desolate! 

God  pity  us  helpless  women, 
Who  can  only  weep  and  wait ! 


THE   BALL   AT   THE   WHITE   HOUSE. 

THE  White    House   is    radiant    with   beauty  and 

light ; 

The  "  heads  of  the  nation "  are  merry  to-night  ; 
And   fair   cheeks   are   blooming,    and   dark   eyes 

grow  bright, 

Responsive  to  passionate  glances. 
Not  a  lip  breathes  a  sigh ;  not  a  brow  speaks  of 

care : 
The  surgeon   and   nurse   take   their  long,  weary 

rounds, 
And    brave    hearts    bleed    slowly   away   through 

great  wounds, 

That  would  frighten  each  delicate  dancer. 
232 


THE  BALL  AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE.      233 

How  delicious  the  wine  that  you  daintily  sip 
Would  taste  to  the  parched  tongue  and  feverish 

lip! 
Though  'twere  only  a  drop,  just  to  moisten  the 

tip, 
Bah  !    nonsense !    sour  gruel  will  answer. 

To-night,  with  the  damp,  frosty  earth  for  a  bed, 

And  stars  shining  through   the   torn   tent   over 
head, 

Full  many  a  soldier  has  laid  down  his  head, 
And  sighed  for  the  blanket  he  needed. 

Do  they  murmur  ?   then  punish  the  base,  thank 
less  churls. 

"It   is   fitting"  that  you   should   wear  "satins" 
and  pearls, 

And  twine  costly  flowers  in  your  beautiful  curls, 
And  "  fit "  that  they  surfer  unheeded. 


234  THE    BALL    AT    THE    WHITE    HOUSE. 

Hunted  like  tigers  in  mountain  and  glen, 

Forced  to  find  refuge  in  forest  and  den, 

It  would  be  a   rare   picture   no   doubt   to   these 

men, 
The  sight  of  your  splendor  and  beauty. 


Flowers   breathe   out    their  life   on   this   festival 
night, 

To  sweeten  the  air  and  gladden  the  sight ; 

Silks  rustle,  and  diamonds  flash  in  the  light, 
And  the  music  grows  thrilling  and  tender. 

Who  would  hint  in  the  midst  of   their  gay,  joy 
ous  life 

Of   a  treasury  empty,  and  brothers  at  strife  ? 

Who  would  guess  that  the  nation    is    struggling 

for  life 
In  the  midst  of   such  feasting  and  splendor? 


THE    BALL    AT   THE    WHITE    HOUSE.  235 

To-night,    with    a   heart    rent   with   anguish   and 

care, 
The   poor,    hunted  "  Unionist "  creeps   from   his 

lair, 
And    looks    up    to    heaven    with    a    half-uttered 

prayer, 

But  dreams  not  of   shrinking  from  duty. 
The  old  ship  of   state  is  the  sport  of   the  sea : 
Her   moorings   are   gone,  breakers   roar   on   her 

lee, 

And  rougher  each  hour  grows  the  weather. 
Bid  your  music   swell   loud ;  let   the   dance   still 

go  on; 
And  when  the  crash  comes,  and  the   last   plank 

is  gone, 
We  will  go  to  the  bottom  together. 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   CALIFORNIA. 

FAIR  dweller  on  a  distant  strand 

The  same  blue  waves  are  beating, 
Across  broad  leagues  of   sea  and  land 

The  Bay  State  sends  you  greeting  ! 
We  stretch  toward  you  an  honest  hand  ; 

We  glory  in  your  beauty  : 
Dear  younger  sister  of   our  band, 

Accept  a  sister's  duty. 

Unchanged  and  peaceful  flows  your  life, 

Unmoved  by  our  disorders; 
The  din  of   this  tremendous  strife, 

Scarce  reaches  to  your  borders. 
236 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO    CALIFORNIA.  237 

In  peaceful  fields  your  farmers  reap, 
And  plenty  fills  their  measures ; 

Your  miners  pierce  the  mountains  steep, 
And  bring  out  golden  treasures. 

Our  homes  are  sad  and  desolate, 

Our  hearthstones  dark  and  lonely ; 
Still  every  pulse  beats  fondly  yet 

For  the  good  Union  only. 
We  send  our  best  and  bravest  forth 

Unshrinking  to  the  slaughter ; 
We  lavish  gold  in  sums  untold ; 

We  pour  our  blood  like  water. 

We  send  no  cowards  to  the  field 

To  shame  our  ancient  glory ; 
Our  sons  will  sooner  die  than  yield,  — 

Let  Ball's  Bluff   tell  the  story. 


238  MASSACHUSETTS    TO    CALIFORNIA. 

You  sit  beneath  the  same  broad  flag: 
Ties,  strong  and  powerful,  bind  us ; 

We  march  to  meet  the  battle's  heat,  — 
Fall  in,  fall  in  behind  us. 

Fair  dweller  on  a  distant  strand 

The  same  broad  sea  is  beating, 
Across  wide  leagues  of  wave  and  land 

The  Bay  State  sends  you  greeting  ! 
Arise  !  stretch  forth  your  helping  hand 

To  save  the  land  we  cherish  ! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  we  must  stand, 

Or  side  by  side  we  perish. 


LEVEE. 

WRITTEN   TO   BE   SUNG  AT  THE   FIREMEN'S   ANNIVERSARY 
FEBRUARY,    1863. 

A  BAND  of  friends  and  brothers  dear, 

We  gather  here  to-night  ; 
And  every  lip  is  wreathed  in  smiles, 

And  every  eye  is  bright. 
We  meet  in  peace  and  friendship, 

Secure  from  all  alarm  : 
Then  honor  to  the  gallant  men 

Who  guard  our  homes  from  harm  ! 

CHORUS. 

Hurrah,  for  our  brave  firemen ! 
Swell  the  chorus  louder,  higher  : 

239 


240  LEVEE. 

All  honor  to  the  gallant  men 

Who  guard  our  homes  from  fire ! 


They  make  no  weeping  orphans ; 

They  fill  no  yawning  grave ; 
Theirs  is  a  noble  mission,  for 

They  conquer  but  to  save. 
We  fear  not  when  the  hungry  flames 

Come  creeping  nigh  and  nigher, 
For  they've  won  full  many  a  triumph 

O'er  the  demon  King  of   Fire. 


CHORUS. 
Hurrah  for  our  brave  firemen  ! 

Swell  the  chorus  louder,  higher : 
They've  won  full  many  a  triumph 

O'er  the  demon  King  of  Fire. 


LEVEE.  241 

We  meet  to-night,  as  we  have  met 

For  many  a  rolling  year ; 
But  manly  forms  are  absent  now 

That  used  to  meet  us  here. 
They  heard  our  country  calling, 

And  their  hearts  were  strong  and  true ; 
So  they  dropped  the  fireman's  scarlet  coat 

For  the  soldier's  blouse  of   blue. 


CHORUS. 
Hurrah  for  our  brave  brothers, 

Whose  hearts  were  strong  and  true, 
Who  dropped  the  fireman's  jacket 

For  the  soldier's  blouse  of  blue  ! 


They  sit  long  weary  miles  away 
Around  the  camp-fire's  light ; 


242  LEVEE. 

And  yet  we  seem  to  hear  them  say, 

"  Remember  us  to-night. 
We've  parents,  homes,  and  loved  ones, 

We  left  at  duty's  call ; 
You  gave  of  your  abundance, 

But  we  have  given  all." 


CHORUS. 
Hurrah  for  our  brave  brothers ! 

They  sprang  at  duty's  call : 
We  come  to-night  to  give  our  mite 

To  those  who've  given  their  all. 

March  on  !  march  on  to  victory, 
O  brothers  brave  and  true ! 

Be  sure  the  hearts  that  stay  behind 
Are  beating  warm  for  you. 


LEVEE.  243 

Our  eager  eyes  will  watch  you : 

We  shall  cherish  every  name ; 
We  sorrow  in  your  sorrows  ; 

We  shall  glory  in  your  fame. 

CHORUS. 
Have  courage,  faith,  and  patience, 

For  your  cause  is  just  and  right : 
God  grant  that  you  may  meet  us  here 

A  twelve-month  from  to-night  ! 


EXPOSURE   TO   A   "DRAFT." 

OF  the  danger    from  "  exposure  to  a  draft,"  we 

often  read 
That  it   generates  disorders  which  are  very  bad 

indeed  ; 
But  the  danger  from  "  exposure  to  a  draft "  was 

ne'er  so  great 
As,  I   judge   from    indications,  it   has   grown   to 

be  of  late. 

Of   all  our  loyal  citizens,  I  think  I  cannot  tell 
Of  more^than    half    a  dozen  who    are  "feeling 

very  well ;  " 
244 


EXPOSURE    TO    A    "DRAFT.  245 

And    so  various    are  the    phases   of   the   illness 

from  one  cause, 
That  I  wonder  if  Dame  Nature  still  is  steadfast 

to  her  laws. 

One   is   halt,    one   is   blind,   a  third   is   deaf    as 

any  post ; 
A    fourth    gone    in    consumption,  —  can    hardly 

walk  at  most ; 
A  fifth    is  dying  daily  from   a  weakness   of  the 

spine, 
And    a    sixth    is    fading    slowly    in    a    general 

decline. 

There    Jenkins,    stalworth-looking,    standing    six 

feet  in  his  shoes, 
And    his   cheeks,  so   plump,  look   ruddy   as    the 

sunset  crimson  hues ; 


246  EXPOSURE    TO    A    "  DRAFT." 

But  alas  !   the  fond  delusion !  'tis   a  hectic  flush 

we  see  ; 
'Tis    a  pulmonary   Jenkins,  who    ere    long  must 

cease  to  be. 


There  is  Muggins,  with  a  form  protrusive  and 
rotund ; 

But  the  dropsy,  —  that  deceitful,  insidious  com 
plaint, 

Is  what  has  made  him  look  so  :  you  may  ask 
him  if  it  haint. 


If  Jeff   Davis  was   a   man  of  any  gumption,  he 

would  know 
That  it's  wasting  ammunition  to  shoot  a  dying 

foe  : 


EXPOSURE    TO    A    "  DRAFT."  247 

Just    let    him    halt    in    Dixie   till    a   few   more 

months  have  sped, 
And    I    think    our   loyal   citizens    will    nearly  all 

be  dead. 


WAR   TO   THE   KNIFE. 

"  ONCE  more  to  the  combat  with  rekindled  zeal, 
Our   flag   to   the   breeze,  and   our  hands   to   the 

steel." 

Bare  every  true  arm  for  the  perilous  fight, 
Then  strike,  and  strike  boldly  for  God  and   the 

right ! 

No  time  to  draw  backward  with  faltering  breath  ; 
We  deal  with  a  foe  that  is  cruel  as  death ; 
Let  us    grant    no    more   parleys   to    treason    and 

guilt ; 
Give  them  "war  to  the  knife,  and  the  knife  to 

the  hilt." 


WAR   TO    THE    KNIFE.  249 

They  have  broken  their  oath  without  shadow  of 

cause  ; 
They   have   trampled   our   banners,  and   mocked 

at  our  laws  ; 
In  the  blood   of   our  brothers   their  hands    have 

grown  red ; 
They  have  murdered  our  wounded  and  mangled 

.    our  dead. 
Is    this,  then,  the   time   to   grow  pale,  and  cry, 

"  Peace !  " 
Shall  we  throw   down   our  weapons  to   dastards 

like  these  ? 

No  !  on,  to  avenge  the  brave  blood  they  have  spilt ! 
Give  them  "war  to  the  knife,  and  the  knife   to 

the  hilt." 

For  we're  sworn  by  an  oath  that  we  will  not  recall, 
For  our  country  to  conquer,  or  gloriously  fall  ; 


25O  WAR    TO    THE    KNIFE. 

Ne'er  to   lay  down   our  arms,  unless    in   death's 

rest, 

Till  our  country  again  is  united  and  blest. 
Already,  beside  the  Potomac's  blue  flood, 
Our   brothers   by  hundreds    have    sealed    it  with 

blood ; 

Their  mission  is  ended,  their  task  nobly  done, 
They  have   left   us   to   finish   the  work  they  be 
gun. 

"Once  more  to  the  combat!"  we  brook  no  de 
lay: 

Let  them  boast  of  their  triumph,  and  taunt 
while  they  may ; 

Loud  cannon  and  steel  shall  bear  back  our 
reply, 

"We  will  wipe  the  foul  stain  from  our  banners, 
or  die." 


WAR   TO    THE    KNIFE.  251 

On,  brothers !  we  fight  in  humanity's  cause 
For  the  country  we  love,  and  her  glorious  laws, 
For  the  temple  of  freedom  our  forefathers  built : 
Give  them  "war  to  the  knife,  and  the  knife   to 
the  hilt." 


OUR   VICTORY. 

RING  out  to-night,  O  sweet-voiced  bells, 

Your  maddest,  merriest  peal ! 
Deep-throated  cannon,  speak  and  tell 

The  gushing  joy  we  feel ! 
Huzza. !  huzza !  the  day  is  won  ! 

Light  every  hill  with  fires, 
And  let  the  electric  tidings  run 

Along  a  thousand  wires. 

We  gaze  upon  our  flag  to-night 

Without  a  sense  of  pain  ; 
It  comes  victorious  from  the  fight, 

Untarnished  by  a  stain. 
252 


OUR    VICTORY.  253 

Trampled  in  dust  by  traitors'  feet 

Those  starry  folds  have  been  ; 
But  our  just  vengeance  is  complete; 

This  day  has  washed  it  clean. 

We  hoped  for  this ;  for  this  we  prayed 

Through  many  a  gloomy  day ; 
And  sometimes  hope  would  almost  fade 

Before  the  long  delay. 
We  longed  to  hear  the  clash  of  steel 

Along  our  border  line, 
And  see  the  cause  of  treason  reel 

And  totter  in  decline. 

i 

And  yet  the  cup  has  its  alloy ; 

Full  many  a  cheek  is  pale, 
And  mixed  with  every  burst  of  joy 

Goes  up  a  deep,  sad  wail, 


254  OUR    VICTORY. 

We  read  the  proud  and  joyful  news 

With  pangs  of  heartfelt  pain, 
And  smiles  and  tear-drops  interfuse 

Like  April  sun  and  rain. 

Alas  for  those  who  wear  the  crown 

Of  thorns  that  is  not  mine, 
Who  laid  their  heart's  best  jewel  down 

Upon  their  country's  shrine ! 
God  pity  those  who  hear  the  bells, 

And  shudder  all  the  while, 
Who,  while's  joy's  tide  around  them  swells, 

Can  feel  no  heart  to  smile ! 

We  hear  the  shouts  of  victory ; 

Hope  sings  and  soars  anew, 
And  then  we  turn,  O  hearts  bereaved, 

To  weep  and  pray  for  you  ! 


OUR    VICTORY.  255 

Sweet  Christ,  drop  thy  divinest  balm 

Into  the  hearts  that  grieve, 
And  make  them  feel  that  blessed  calm 

Which  only  thou  canst  give ! 


LAUS   DEO. 

SING  to  the  Lord  our  helper !     He  hath  been  our 

strength  and  might ; 
He  hath  girded  on  His  armor :  our  foes  are  put 

to  flight; 
In    every  sore   disaster  He   has  been   our  guide 

and  friend. 
Long   the   way  has    been,  and    fearful ;   but    our 

eyes  can  see  the  end  : 
'Twere  worth  ten  lives,  though  every  life   could 

count  a  hundred  years, 
But  to  have  been   in    Richmond    to    have   heard 

our  soldiers'  cheers, 


LAUS    DEO.  257 

And  the  bands  of  music  playing,  and  the  deep- 
mouth  cannon's  roar, 

When  the  old  "  star-spangled  banner "  rose  on 
Richmond's  walls  once  more, 

Where  so  long  Rebellion's  emblem  has  been  dar 
ingly  unfurled, 

A  menace  to  our  country,  and  an  insult  to  the 
world  ! 

Tremble,  O   deserted   city !   where   the   walls   of 

Libby  stand, 

A  terror  and  a  loathing  to  a  desolated  land. 
Didst  thou  think  the  captive's  tear-drop,  and  his 

bitter,  bitter  moan, 
Were  not  borne  by  pitying  angels  straight  before 

the  great  white  throne  ? 
Didst  thou  think  God's  ear  was  deafened  ?  didst 

thou  think  He  could  not  hear? 


258  LAUS    DEO. 

Didst   them   think    His    arm  was  shortened,  that 

He  could  not  punish  thee  ? 
Lo,    thy   day  of   reckoning   cometh !   low  is  thy 

proud,  rebellious  head ; 
Thou  shalt  drink  thy  tears  like  water ;  thou  shalt 

eat  sin's  bitter  bread  : 
There  shall   be   not   one   to   pity  when  thy  woe 

for  pity  calls. 
Tremble !   tremble,  wicked  city !  for  God's  hand 

in   justice  falls. 


Glory,  glory  !  morning  cometh  !     Long  and  dark 

has  been  the  night, 
And  our  eyes  have  ached  with  weeping  and  with 

watching  for  the  light. 
Long  we  lavished  gold  uncounted,  long  we  poured 

our  blood  like  rain, 


LAUS    DEO.  259 

And  we  rallied  to   the   conflict   bravely,  sternly, 

but  in  vain ; 
For   God    priced   our   freedom    higher,   and    His 

voice  at  first  heard  low, 
Kept    ringing   louder,  clearer,  "  Let   my  captive 

people  go. 
While  they  toil   and  weep   in   bondage,  all  your 

valor  shall  be  vain ; 
Dare  not  hope   that    I  will   bless  you  while  you 

bind  one  sufferer's  chain." 
And  at  last,  in  mute  obedience,  we   listened   to 

the  call, 

And,  look  !  the  dear  old  banner  waves  on  Rich 
mond's  conquered  wall. 


Glory,  glory !     Ransomed  nation,  lift   one   long, 
exultant  shout : 


2(5O  LAUS    DEO. 

Let  the  hill-tops  blaze  with  bonfires ;  fling  the 
flag  we've  fought  for  out  ; 

Ring,  O  tuneful  bells  of  freedom,  till  the  very 
steeple  reel, 

For  the  armed  head  of  treason  lies  'neath  Lib 
erty's  mailed  heel ! 

Speak  with  tongues  of  flame,  O  cannon !  send 
thy  joyful  tidings  round ; 

Roar  till  the  far  skies  re-echo,  and  the  whole 
world  hears  the  sound, 

And  tell  earth's  quaking  despots,  as  they  list 
with  straining  ears, 

"  Lo,  the  great  Republic  liveth ; "  thus  she  an 
swers  to  your  queries ; 

Thus  to  your  very  strongholds  is  her  proud 
defiance  hurled. 

Glory !  God  is  throned  in  heaven,  and  there's 
freedom  for  the  world. 


HYMN. 

ON     THE    DEATH    OF     PRESIDENT    LINCOLN, 
APRIL     IQ,      1865. 

O  GOD  forever  nigh, 

Who  hear'st  Thy  people's  cry, 

Incline  Thine  ear! 
We  mourn  our  noble  dead, 
Our  nation's  honored  head : 
Come,  and  Thy  influence  shed, 

Our  hearts  to  cheer. 

Through  these  long,  weary  years 
Of   darkness,  doubts,  and  fears, 
He  led  our  way : 

261 


262  HYMN. 

He  taught  us  faith  and  hope ; 
He  shared  our  bitter  cup  ; 
He  bore  our  banner  up 
In  danger's  day. 


Now,  when  the  sky  grows  bright 
With  victory,  —  glorious  light,--- 

The  nation  weeps. 
Ah  !  dreadful  was  the  blow 
That  laid  our  leader  low ; 
But  while  we  bow  in  woe 

He  calmly  sleeps. 


Rest  calmly,  sainted  dust : 
We  will  fulfil  the  trust 
Imposed  by  thee. 


HYMN. 

The  land  that  holds  thy  grave, 
The  land  thou  diedst  to  save, 
Shall  never  own  a  slave: 
All  "shall  be  free. 


263 


POEMS   OF   NATURE. 


INVOCATION. 

I'M  tired  of  strife ;    I'm  sick  of  heartless  living  : 
Fain    would    I    from   the   world's  rude  jostling 
flee. 

No  longer  toward  youth's  high  ideal  striving, 
Thy  child,  O  mother  Nature !  turns  to  thee. 

For  thou  canst  comfort  when  the  heart  is  sorest ; 

Oh,  let  me  take  thy  hand  and  walk  with  thee, 
And  watch  thee  sowing  acorns  in  the  forest, 

Or  scattering  spring's  blue  violets  o'er  the  lea. 

Let  me  sit  with  thee  'neath  the  maples'  shadows, 
Or  watch  upon  the  hills  to  see  thee  pass  ; 

267 


268  INVOCATION. 

Teach  me  to  trace  thy  footsteps  in  the  meadows 
By  the  bright  cowslips  dotting  all  the  grass. 

Speak  to  me  in  the  murmur  of   the  river ; 

Sing  to  me  with  thy  thousand  voices  sweet ; 
Hold  my  tired  head,  and  let  me  sit  forever 

Drinking  in  rest  and  patience  at  thy  feet. 

So  shall  I  rise  above  earth's  selfish  sorrow ; 

So    shall    I    win    new   strength   to   bear   life's 

pain  ; 
And,  waiting  hopefully  for  "heaven  to-morrow," 

Take  up  my  burden,  and  press  on  again. 


NATURE. 

I  WORSHIP  Nature  in  her  mildest  mood, 
In  the  dark  mountain  or  the  silent  wood  ; 
I  love  the  quiet  of  her  summer  hours, 
Her  singing  birds  and  many-colored  flowers  ; 
Not  less  I  love  her  when,  arrayed  in  white, 
The  earth  reflects  the  sun's  unclouded  light. 
Oh  !  Nature's  hand  is  bountiful  and  kind : 
She  is  a  foster-mother  to  the  mind. 
Not  with  harsh  words  she  leads  the  erring 
To  Virtue's  road  from  Misery's  thorny  track  ; 
She  speaks  to  him  in  tones  as  soft  and  mild 

As  the  fond  mother  to  an  erring  child ; 

269 


2/O  NATURE. 

She  whispers  him  from  sunny  glen  and  wood, 
From  crowded  street  and  dreary  solitude ; 
She  sends  the  sunshine  and  the  gentle  shower ; 
She  smiles  on  him  from  every  wayside  flower ; 
And,  when  the  daylight  in  the  west  grows  dim, 
She    lights    the    evening's    twinkling    lamps    for 

him, 

Till  he  repent,  by  love  and  beauty  won, 
The  wrong  and  evil  he  hath  blindly  done, 
And  wins  his  way  with  penitence  and  tears 
Back  to  the  purity  of  earlier  years. 


COMFORT   IN   NATURE. 

THERE  is  a  quiet  spot  —  I  know  it  well  — 
'Where  the  wild  lily  hangs  its  spotted  bell; 
And    upward    glancing    through    its    pale-green 

leaves, 

With  meek  eyes  of  tears  like  one  that  grieves, 
The  violet  unfolds  its  leaves  of  blue 
To  catch  the  sunshine,  and  to  drink  the  dew ; 
And,  with  a  look  half-timid  and  half-bold, 
The  cowslip  rears  its  tiny  cup  of  gold. 
There  blooms  the  daisy,  fairest  child  of  Spring, 
And  there  the  robin  earliest  comes  to  sing, 
And  breezes  kiss  the  willows  as  they  pass, 
And  crickets  chirp  and  rustle  in   the  grass, 

2/1 


2/2  COMFORT    IN    NATURE. 

And  the  gay  brook  in  shade  or  sunshine  ever 
Goes  singing  on  to  join  the  restless  river. 

And  sometimes  when  my  heart  is  full  of  care, 

Or  bound  with  earthly  chains,  I  wander  there, 

And,  half  reclining  on  the  sunny  grass, 

I  watch  the  flitting  shadows  come  and  pass, 

And  see  the  dazzling  sunrays  as  they  gleam 

Upon  the  dimpling  eddies  of  the  stream  ; 

Or  listen  to  the  love-songs  of  the  birds, 

Sweeter  than  any  ever  set  to  words, 

Till  cares  and  trials  fade,  or  only  seem 

Like  the  vague  memory  of  some  troubled  dream, 

Or     some    sad,    thrilling    music    heard    through 

tears 

At  first,  but  after  lapse  of  many  years 
Thought  of  but  seldom,  or  perchance  forgot ; 
And  I  rise  up  contented  with  my  lot. 


LIFE. 

A    SONNET. 

THE  rain  is  falling,  and  the  skies  are  gray ; 

Dark,  sullen  clouds  go  flying  back  and  forth  ; 
Yet  I  can  see  the  golden  sunshine  play 

Upon  yon  mountain  summit  of  the  north. 
And  they  who  stand  upon  its  topmost  height 
Can    bask   them    in    the    warm    and    cheering 

beam, 

While  underneath  the  skies  look  dark  as  night, 
And  through 'rent  clouds   the    fiery  lightnings 

gleam  : 

So  we,  tired  travellers  through  a  desert  land, 
Beset  on  every  side  by  doubts  and  strife, 

273 


2/4  LIFE. 

Can  at  the  best  but  dimly  understand 

What  is  the  transient  thing  that  men  call  life : 

But,  when  from  all  earth's  clogs  our  souls  are  free, 
How    wide,    how    grand,    will    our    unbounded 
prospect  be ! 


FLOWERS. 

FLOWERS  !  are  they  not  the  alphabet  of  angels, 
Wherein    they    write    God's     pure    and    holy 

will  ? 

Are  they  not  sent  to  us  like  sweet  evangels 
To    teach    us    how   he    loves    earth's   children 
still  ? 

For,  from  the  ever-blooming  tropic's  bowers 
Unto  the  arctics,  there  is  scarce  a  spot 

That    may    not    boast    the     precious     boon    of 

flowers,  — 
That  this  sweet  gift  of   God  enlightens  not. 


2/6  FLOWERS. 

Flowers !    bring    the     fragrant,    creamy    orange- 
blossom 
To   grace   the   white   brow  of   the   fair  young 

bride ; 

Wreathe  in  her  hair,  and  lay  them  on  her  bosom  : 
By  them  her  purity  is  typified. 

Flowers    for  the    festal    board !    bring    summer 

roses, 
That    shake   such    perfume   from    their   hearts 

of   gold, 

And  each  gay  flower  that  to  the  sun  uncloses, 
And  shuts  again  when  night  comes,  dark  and 
cold. 

Flowers  for  the  dead  !  oh,  bring  the  drooping  lily  ; 
Bring  snowy  buds  just  bursting  through  their 
green, 


FLOWERS.  2/7 

To  lay  upon  the  form  so  pale  and  chilly,  — 
The  casket  where  the  precious  gem  has  been. 

Flowers   for   the   young !    oh,    lead   the    feet    of 

childhood, 

pre  yet  they  enter  sin's  bewildering  mazes, 
To    every   flower-loved    haunt    in   vale   or   wild- 
wood, 

And    through    the     meadow    buttercups     and 
daisies. 

Flowers !  are  they  not  the  alphabet  of  angels, 
Wherein   their  brightest,  purest   thoughts   are 

spelt  ? 

Are  they  not  sent  to  us  as  God's  evangels, 
Voiceless,  yet    speaking   words    that    may    be 
felt  ? 


SPRING   MEMORIES. 

THE  lilac-buds  begin  to  swell  ; 
The  cowslip  rears  its  yellow  bell ; 
And  deep  in  every  sunny  dell 

The  wild  arbutus-blossoms  spring ; 
The  maples  show  pale  tufts  of   leaves ; 
And,  from  their  nests  beneath  the  eaves, 

The  glancing  swallows  soar  and  sing. 

The  meadow's  violets  are  blue ; 
The  rosebuds  have  a  carmine  hue, 
Like  the  warm  flush  that  ripples  through 
The  whiteness  of   a  maiden's  cheeks ; 
278 


SPRING    MEMORIES.  2/9 

And  from  the  pine-grove  on  the  hill 
I  hear  the  lonely  whip-poor-will, 
That  I  can  almost  fancy  speaks. 

In  such  bright  spring-times  long  ago, 
Before  our  hearts  had  learned  to  know 
There  are  such  words  as  care  and  woe 
And  weariness  and  pain  and  strife, 
Beneath  the  dome  of   May's  blue  sky, 
My  dark-eyed  sister  Lu  and  I 
Spent  hours  and  days  of  childhood's  life. 

We  plucked  the  violets  white  and  blue  ; 
Our  bare  feet  brushed  morn's  earliest  dew 
From  paths  where  the  wild  strawberries  grew  ; 
And  well  we  knew  each  forest  glade 
Where  the  wild  partridge  reared  her  young, 
And  where  the  robins  earliest  sung, 
And  where  the  summer  longest  staid. 


28O  SPRING    MEMORIES. 

How  blue  the  skies  stretched  overhead ! 
How  gorgeous  seemed  the  rose's  red ! 
And  the  green  carpet  for  us  spread 
Was  wrought  with  richest  flowers  ;  the  sands, 
With  shining  pebbles  dotted  o'er, 
Seemed  to  us  like  the  golden  floor 
That  poets  give  to  fairylands. 

Oh  that  the  May-time's  balmy  breath 

Could  bring  back  childhood's  trust  and  faith, 

That  makes  all  things  seem  bright,  and  death 

Seems  only  like  a  sweet  repose, 

From  which  with  new  and  strengthened  powers 

We'd  wake,  as  wake  the  April  flowers 

From  underneath  December's  snows  ! 


THE  VOICE   OF   SPRING. 

I  AM  God's  limner.     When    the  sunshine    round 

them 

First    tempts    the    squirrel    and    the    brown- 
winged  bee 
From    their   retreat,    and,    freed    from    ice    that 

bound  them, 
The     mountain-rills     leap    downward    to    the 

sea, 

With  silent  fingers  through  the  sunny  hours 
I  dress  the  forest  trees  in  robes  of   green, 
And  wake  to  life  again  the  pale,  sweet  flowers 
That  grace  the  fair  of   the  May-day  queen. 

281 


282  THE    VOICE    OF    SPRING. 

I  tinge  the  violet's  pensive  eyes  with  azure ; 

I  gild  the  buttercups  with  purest  gold  ; 
And,   'neath    my   smiles    on    the    bleak    Alpine 
glacier, 

The  harebell  nods  unconscious  of   the  cold. 
Deep  in  the  forest  aisles  of   gloomy  splendor 

The    starwort    specks    the    moss-like  flakes   of 

light, 
And  the  wood-laurel  hangs  on  branches  slender 

Its  tiny  honey-cups  of   pink  and  white. 

Up  through  the  fresh  green    grass   that   clothes 
the  meadow, 

Like  stars  the  yellow  dandelions  look ; 
And  the  forget-me-not  blooms  in  the  shadow 

Of   alders  that  o'erhang  the  meadow  brook ; 
A  thread  of  silver  through  its  banks  doth  glisten  ; 

And  there  at  noon  the  cattle  crowd  to  drink, 


THE    VOICE    OF    SPRING.  283 

Dr  stand  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  seem  to  listen 
The  tinkling  music  of  the  bobolink. 

Earth,     sea,    and     air     beneath     my     presence 

lighten  ; 

And  even  the  skies  a  deeper  azure  catch ; 
And  at  the  sunset  hour  they  flush  and  brighten 
In    pictures    Claude  and    Raphael    ne'er  could 

match. 
Painted  upon  the  placid  sky  of   even 

They  look  so  beautiful,  that,  while  they  last, 
One  might  half  fancy  it  the  gate  of   heaven, 
Through  which  some    shining  angel   just    had 
passed. 


IMPATIENCE. 

I  AM  longing  for  the  summer, 

For  the  long,  glad  summer  days  ; 
For  the  river's  dreamy  murmur, 

And  the  wild  birds'  gushing  lays ; 
For  the  breath  of  countless  flowers 

By  the  zephyr  borne  along : 
Oh,  the  joyous  summer  hours ! 

They  can  never  seem  too  long. 

Snow  lies  upon  the  meadow, 

Where  the  violet's  azure  cup, 
From  beneath  the  alder's  shadow, 

In  the  spring-time  peepeth  up ; 

284  _ 


IMPATIENCE.  285 

And  the  hill  is  shrouded  over, 
Where  in  summer-time  the  breeze 

Waved  a  rich  sea  of  clover, 

Bright  with  butterflies  and  bees. 

White  the  forest,  in  whose  mazes 

I  have  wandered  many  a  day, 
And  the  valleys  filled  with  daisies 

Where  the  drowsy  cattle  lay  ; 
And  I  long  to  hear  the  rustle 

Of  the  south  wind  through  the  leaves, 
And  to  see  the  swallows  nestle 

In  their  nests  beneath  the  eaves. 

Where  the  willows'  golden  tassels 
Touched  the  dimpling  stream  below ; 

And,  like  fleets  of  fairy  vessels, 
Swung  white  lilies  to  and  fro, 


286  IMPATIENCE. 

Dark  and  sullen  glides  the   river 
'Neath  its  icy  fetters  fast; 

And  the  leafless  willows  shiver 
In  the  shrieking  northern  blast. 

I  am  longing  for  the  summer, 

With  its  long,  bright  sunny  days ; 
For  the  river's  dreamy  murmur, 

And  the  song-bird's  gushing  lays : 
I  am  weary  of  the  winter, 

With  its  long  and  dreary  reign, 
And  I  wait  the  joyous  summer 

With  impatience  that  is  pain. 


WHIMS. 

I  LOVE  to  sit  in  the  twilight 
When  the  fire  is  old  and  dim, 

And  hear  in  the  click  of  the  embers 
A  tale  that  is  ghostly  and  grim  ; 

To  trace  in  the  feathery  ashes 
The  faces  and  forms  of  things 

That  come  to  my  nightly  vision, 
And  stir  up  my  soul  with  wings  ; 

To  feel,  as  the  shadows  creep  closer, 

A  thrill  in  the  tranced  air, 

287 


288  WHIMS. 

Like  the  breath  of  a  brooding  spirit, 
The  wraith  of  a  wrestling  prayer. 

When  the  heart  of  the  midnight  is  beating 
Weird  time  with  the  watch  on  the  wall, 

And,  pillowed  on  my  heart,  is  dreaming 
The  thought  that  is  dearest  of  all,  — 

I  love  to  lie  low  in  the  darkness, 
And  hear  the  storm-spirits  go  by, 

With  a  wrench  at  my  window-shutter, 
And  a  wailing,  piteous  cry ; 

To  gather  still  closer  my  thoughts  so  true 
In  the  face  of  the  scurrying  foe, 

And  go  maundering  down  the  river  of  sleep 
With  all  the  sweet  voices  I  know. 


WHIMS.  289 

I  love  the  thin  cry  of  the  cricket 
On  the  hearth  or  the  lonely  moor; 

The  woodpecker  rat-a-tat  tapping, 
Like  Death,  at  the  oldest  door. 

There  is  a  spelt  in  the  knell  of  the  faded  leaf ; 

And,  of  all  the  days  in  the  year, 
I  love  the  red,  ripe  carnival  time 

Old  Autumn  makes  over  his  bier. 


THE   WINTER   RAIN. 

THE  winter  rain,  the  winter  rain, 

I  love  to  see  it  fall 
Upon  the  white  and  stainless  snow 

Or  the  half-covered  wall. 
Pray  tell  me  why  a  winter  rain 

Is  pleasanter  to  see 
Than  falling  drops  of  other  rain  : 

I'm  sure  it  is  to  me. 

I  know  not  why  the  tinkling  sound 

Of  falling  raindrops  well 
Should  o'er  my  heart  and  in  my  mind 

Exert  a  witching  spell ; 
290 


THE    WINTER    RAIN.  29! 

Yet,  in  whate'er  the  spell  exists, 

It  is  a  joy  to  me, 
And  I  would  not  dissolve  the  charm 

For  hours  of  merry  glee. 

The  dark,  the  thick,  the  spreading  cloud, 

From  which  th^e  raindrops  come, 
Is  brighter  to  my  eyes  than  all 

The  pure  cerulean  dome. 
It  may  be  that  it  seems  like  spring 

To  see  the  falling  rain, 
As  if  the  leaves  and  buds  would  grow, 

And  blossoms  come  again ; 

» 
That  birds  again  will  greet  the  air 

With  their  rich  notes  of  love, 
And  warmer  subeams  gild  with  light 
The  azure  skies  above. 


2Q2  THE    WINTER    RAIN. 

There  is  a  pensive  quietness 

In  that  soft,  dropping  sound, 
That  fills  my  heart  with  happiness, 

Though  all  be  dark  around. 

And  so  where'er  my  lot  is  cast, 

On  valley,  hill,  or  plain, 
This  sound  will  please  while  life  shall  last, 

The  dropping  of  the  rain. 


A   GLIMPSE   FROM   MY   WINDOW. 

'Tis    evening !     the    stars    in    their    beauty    are 

shining, 
And  brightly  they  beam  on  this  fair  earth   of 

ours  ; 

And  gentle  and  noiseless  the  dewdrops  are  fall 
ing 

On  earth's  verdant  bosom  and  beautiful   flow 
ers. 

The  song  of   the   birds  through   the   still   air   is 

stealing, 

And  the  cricket's  shrill  note  on  the  zephyr  is 
borne ; 


294  A    GLIMPSE    FROM    MY    WINDOW. 

And  gushings  of  music,  now  joyfully  pealing, 
With  hum  of  the  forest,  and  rustling  of  corn. 

Such   nights    and   such   beauty    were   not   made 

for  sleeping, 

But  given  to  cheer  us  in  life's  stormy  way, 
To  cheer  our  path  onward,  and  guide  our  steps 

upward 
To  regions  of  perfect,  unchangeable  day. 


FLOATING   DOWN   THE   RIVER. 

SUNSET  fades  behind  the  hill, 

Twilight  drops  her  spangled  veil, 
And  the  love-born  whip-poor-will, 

Tells  his  woe  to  every  gale. 
Stars  gleam  tremblingly  from  the  sky ; 

On  the  stream  the  moonbeams  quiver; 
And  our  boat  goes  silently 

Floating,  floating  down  the  river. 

Waves  flash  backward  from  the  oar ; 

Then  break  rippling  on  the  strand ; 
Fireflies  light  the  lamps  on  the   shore ; 

Earth  seems  some  enchanted  land : 

295 


296  FLOATING    DOWN    THE    RIVER. 

To  the  south  wind's  balmy  sigh 
Willows  bend  and  aspens   shiver, 

And  our  boat  goes  silently 

Floating,  floating  down  the  river. 

There  the  rude  bridge  spans  the  stream  ; 

Deep  and  dark  the  waters  lie, 
Still  as  Lethe's  fabled  dream, 

Black  as  midnight's  noonless  sky  ; 
And  the  night-bird's  sudden  cry 

Makes  the  startling  dreamer  shiver, 
While  the  boat  goes  silently 

Floating,  floating  down  the  river. 

Now  past  some  enchanted  isle 
In  the  moonlight  sleeping  fair, 

We  can  almost  see  the  while 
Elves  and  fairies  dancing  there; 


FLOATING    DOWN    THE    RIVER.  297 

On  the  breeze  that  wanders  by 

Notes  of  elfin  music  quiver, 
And  our  boat  goes  silently 

Floating,  floating  down  the  river. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


KATIE   BLOWING   BUBBLES. 

KATIE,  with  thy  laughing  eyes 
Full  of   sweet  and  glad  surprise, 
Gazing  up  towards  the  skies,  — 

Where  thy  bubble's  rainbow  hue 
Floats  between  thee  and  the  blue, 
Listen,  while  I  tell  thee  true. 

Life  has  bubbles  lighter  far 
Than  your  air-blown  bubbles  are, 
Which  one  careless  breath  would  mar ! 

301 


3O2  KATIE    BLOWING    BUBBLES. 

Thou  art  yet  too  young  to  care 
That  thy  face  is  very  fair, 
That  so  golden  is  thy  hair; 

» 

And  that  yonder  azure  skies, 
Where  to-day  no  shadow  lies, 
Are  not  bluer  than  thine  eyes ! 

Yes,  thy  greatest  care  to  know 
Where  the  earliest  violets  grow, 
And  wild  honeysuckles  blow ; 

Where  the  robin's  young  are  nursed, 
Where  the  wild  grapes  purple  first, 
And  their  burrs  the  chestnuts  burst. 

Katie,  it  were  well  for  thee 
If  thy  life  might  ever  be 
From  all  pride  and  envy  free! 


KATIE    BLOWING    BUBBLES.  303 

Trust  not  in  thy  beauty's  power  : 
It  is  but  a  summer  flower, 

Blooming,  withering  in  an  hour, — 

As  thy  floating  bubble  there, 
That  a  moment  was  so  fair, 
Burst,  and  vanished  into  air. 

Seek  thyself  a  surer  dower, — 
Knowledge,  goodness,  —  these  have  power 
Still  to  charm  till  life's  last  hour. 

So  when  youth  shall  pass  away, 
And  thy  sunny  locks  are  gray, 
Thou  canst  wait  a  brighter  day,  — 

Where  no  storms  of  time  can  blight ; 
Even  Heaven's  unfading  light, 
That  shall  never  set  in  night. 


LOOKING  BACK. 

"  I  WOULD  I  were  a  child  again !  " 

Too  soon  life's  spring-time  violets  die ; 
Too  briefly  blooms  the  summer's  rose, 
Too  soon  morn's  sapphire-tinted  sky 
With  noontide's  fiery  splendor  glows ; 
Too  soon  the  greedy  winds  drink  up 
The  dewdrop  from  the  flower-cup  ; 

Too  soon  the  birds  we  tended  fly ; 
And  all  too  soon  the  heart  grows  old  ; 
The  thick  warm  blood  creeps  dull  and  cold, 
And,  looking  back,  we  sigh  with  pain, 
"  I  would  I  were  a  child  again  ! " 

3°4 


LOOKING    BACK.  305 

"  I  would  I  were  a  child  again ! " 

The  shadow  of  the  coming  years 
Across  my  pathway  darkly  lies : 

My  eyes  are  not  unused  to  tears ; 
Not  passing  drops  from  April  skies, 
But  such  as  fall  from  eyes  that  see 
Youth's  fairy  dreams  and  fancies  flee 

Without  the  power  to  bid  them  stay ; 
And  gaze,  and  gaze  like  the  charmed  bird, 
With  every  pulse  to  madness  stirred, 
And  stretch  pale  hands,  and  moan  in  vain, 
"  Oh,  would  I  were  a  child  again ! " 

Ah,  were  I  but  a  child  again, 

To  dream  once  more  those  happy  dreams  ! 
Reading  from  Nature's  open  books, 

Learning  of   singing  meadow-streams 
And  whispering  pines  and  laughing  brooks ; 


306  LOOKING    BACK. 

To  feel,  if  but  for  on6  brief  hour, 

The  same  sweet  consciousness  of   peace ; 

The  strength  to  do,  the  will  to  dare, 
That  thrilled  me  in  those  early  days 
Ere  I  had  tired  of   life's  devious  ways, 
Or  breathed  the  wild  wish  born  of   pain, 
"  I  would  I  were  a  child  again ! " 


THE   POOR   MAN. 

POOR,  yet  rich  indeed,  am  I : 
True,  I  rise  at  early  dawning, 

And  my  way  to  labor  take 

E'er  the  rich  man  is  awake, 
Or  while  he,  at  most,  lies  yawning. 

And  the  rich  man  looks  on  me 

With  a  scorn  that  needs  no  speaking ; 
Yet  my  heart  is  light  as  air, 

While  his  brow  is  knit  with  care, 

i 
And  true  pleasure  shuns  his  seeking. 


3O8  THE    POOR    MAN. 

And  I  envy  not  the  rich  man, 

Though  his  rank  in  life  is  higher ; 
Better  hands  with  labor  reddened 
Than  a  heart  morose  and  deadened, 
Lost  to  every  pure  desire. 

Can  the  rich  more  beauty  find 

In  the  morning's  sapphire  splendor? 
Do  they  taste  a  sweeter  balm 
In  the  noontide's  breathless  calm, 
Or  the  twilight  soft  and  tender? 

Does  the  gentle  air  of  heaven 

Come  more  lovingly  to  woo  them  ? 
Sing  the  birds  more  loud  or  clear 
When  the  rich  man  stops  to  hear, 
Than  when  I  am  listening  to  them  ? 


THE    POOR    MAN.  309 

He  may  boast  his  pictures  olden 
Of   Madonnas  meek  and  sainted  ; 

But  I  see  in  yonder  blue 

Pictures  every  hour  new, 

By  the  heavenly  Artist  painted. 

Mine  are  all  the  sweet  wild  flowers 
That  the  spring-time  wakes  to  beauty ; 

Mine  the  forest  zephyr-haunted ; 

Mine  the  songs  by  bright  birds  chanted, 
"  Life  is  sweet,  and   joy  a  duty." 

I  have  friends  that  truly  love  me, 

And  I  dearly,  fondly  prize  them  ; 
But  the  rich  man  never  knows 
Who  are  friends  or  who  are  foes, 

Till  some  freak  of   fortune  tries  them. 


3IO  THE    POOR    MAN. 

Men  may  fawn  and  cringe  around  him, 

Teaching  servile  tongues  to  flatter ; 
But  when  life's  lamp  burneth  dim, 
And  death's  angel  calls  for  him, 
What  will  all  his  riches  matter? 

I  shall  sleep  as  sweetly  then 
In  some  dim,  unnoticed  corner, 

As  if   I  had  passed  through  life 

Without  care  or  toil  or  strife, 

Loaded  down  with  wealth  and  pleasure. 


A   LEGEND. 

LONG  time  the  weary  knight  had  rode  in  gloomy 

silence  on  : 
The  stars  were   beaming   in   the   sky,  the   day's 

last  beam  was  gone ; 
When,  through   the   tangled   wildwood   deep,  he 

sees  a  glimmering  light, 
And,  faint   and   tired,  his   heart   leaped   up,  and 

bounded  with  delight. 

Now  speed   thee   on,  my   gallant   steed,  and  wo 

will  soon  be  there, 
And   better   lodging   shalt   thou   have   than    the 

dark  forest  lair ; 

3" 


312  A    LEGEND. 

And  soon,  for  all  this  day's   fatigue,  thou    shalt 

be  well  repaid ; 
For  nobly  thou   hast   borne   me   on   across   this 

trackless  glade. 

And   here   I'll   blow   my   merry  horn,  perchance 

that  they  may  hear; 
At  least,  'twill  while  away  the   time,  and    serve 

the  road  to  clear. 
How   dismally  that   raven   croaks !    'tis   ominous 

of  ill, 
Perchance  'tis   but   a  ghostly  light ;   but    I   will 

onward  still. 

Long  time  again  they  wander  on  :  again  at  last 

they  reach  the  door. 
He  knocks;   no  reply, — again,  still  louder  than 

before. 


A    LEGEND.  313 

But,  though  the  voice  of   revelry  resounds  within 

the  wall, 
No  friendly  hand  unbolts  the  door ;  none  answered 

to  this  call. 

• 

"  Now,  by  my  faith,"  the  knight  exclaims,  "  what 

surly  curs  are  here  ? 
Unbolt   your  door,   good    people   all !      I    would 

partake  your  cheer." 
No  answer ;   knock  again  :    "  I  ask  if  you  refuse 

the  call. 
By  all   the   powers   of  heaven,  I'll   batter  down 

this  wall ! " 

But,  hark !  a  rough  and  boisterous  voice,  "  Seek 

not  to  enter  here ; 
But  shun  it  as  ye  fear  to  die :   ye  shall  not  taste 

our  cheer ; 


314  A    LEGEND. 

And,  if  ye  seek  to   enter  in,  this   dog  will  take 

away 
The   life  you   foolishly  expose   each   moment   of 

your  stay." 

Then   harshly  on    the   night   air   still   the   dog's 

wild  howling  broke, 
And  once  again  upon  the  air  he  heard  the  raven 

croak ; 
And  then   again   the   house  was   still,  all   silent 

as  the  tomb, 
But  still    the   cheerful    light   gleamed    out    upon 

the  forest  gloom. 

"  Unbolt,  unbolt !  "  again  he  cries,  and  once  again 

he  knocks ; 
He  hears  the  creaking  of   the  bolt,  the   ringing 

of   the  locks ; 


A    LEGEND.  315 

And  once  again  that  surly  voice  re-echoes  through 
the  gloom  : 

"  Fool,  thus  to  draw  upon  thyself  a  sure  impend 
ing  doom  ! " 

And  then  the  door  is  opened,  and  he  enters 
boldly  in, 

And  looks  upon  the  glowing  fire,  the  marble 
vase  within. 

But  where  are  all  the  revellers  ?  A  lady  young 
and  fair 

Is  all  the  living  thing  his  eyes  can  yet  distin 
guish  there. 

With   courteous   speech   he   bent   his   knee    and 

sued  for  pardon  there  ; 
And  bright  she  smiled,  but  nothing   spoke,  that 

lady  young  and  fair. 


3l6  A    LEGEND. 

Then  plentiful  the  board  was  spread  with  wines 

and  costly  cheer ; 
And,    with    this    token   of   good-will,   he   had   no 

thought  of  fear. 

She  wore  a  wreath  upon  her  head,  a  wreath   of 

roses  bright ; 
She  plucked  the  fairest  with  her  hand,  so  dainty 

and  so  white ; 
And  then  she  spoke  :    "  I  give  you  this.     A  token 

let  it  be, 
What    day   it    fades,    that    self-same   day,    you'll 

meet  again  with  me." 

She  passed  him,  and  she  breathed  "good-night;" 

and  then  she  left  the  room, 
And  all  was  still    and   silent   as   the   portals   of 

the  tomb  ; 


A    LEGEND.  317 

And    then    upon    the    wall    he    saw    a    picture 

quaint  and  old  : 
'Twas    sculptured    by    a    master    hand    upon    a 

shield  of  gold,  — 
A  wounded,  couchant  deer  it  seemed  within  its 

forest  lair ; 
But,  oh !  the  eyes  were  human  eyes :  they  glared 

upon  him  there, 
And    strangely    seemed   they   to    the   knight   to 

gaze  where'er  he  moved. 
Oh,  dark  and  fatal  was  the  spell :  a  potent  spell 

they  proved. 


Day  broke ;  the  knight  resumed  his  way ;  across 

his    steed    he   throws 
The   bridle-rein,  and   in   his   belt    he  twines  the 

blooming  rose ; 


318  A    LEGEND. 

And,  ere  the  sun  the  zenith  gained,  he  reached 
his  castle  home, 

And  laughed  and  jested  with  his  friends,  and 
scorned  the  threatened  doom. 

A  year  had  passed,  still  bloomed  the  rose ;  but 
on  one  fatal  day 

He  found  it  pale  and  withering,  and  hasting  to 
decay. 

His  heart  within  him  loudly  beat,  his  cheeks 
grew  pale  with  dread, 

And  his  eyes  were  dim  and  glassy  as  the  eye 
balls  of  the  dead. 


"  I  will  not  yield  to  this  -fcgise  dread,  this  weak, 

ignoble  fear : 
Ho,  bring  me  forth  my  gallant    steed !    I  go   to 

chase  the  deer." 


A    LEGEND.  319 

He  mounted,  waved   a  gay  adieu,  then,  dashing 
through  the  wood, 

The  clatter  of  the  horse's  hoofs  awoke  the  soli- 

i 

tude. 
Soon  from  the  road-side  sprang  a  deer,  a  quick 

and  noble  thing, 
And*  joyously  and   free   it    moved   as    eagle   on 

the  wing ; 
And  then  an  arrow  keen  he  threw,  and,  wounded 

in  the  side, 
The  noble    animal   turned   back,  red  with    life's 

gushing  tide. 


Its  graceful  antlers  pierced  his  steed,  and,  leap 
ing  wild  and  high, 

It  gave  one  groan  of  agony,  then  laid  it  down 
to  die ; 


32O  A    LEGEND. 

And   he,  the   knight,  lay  breathless   there   upon 

the  heathy  plain, 
And  then  the  wounded  deer  returned,  and  stood 

by  him  again  ; 
Then,  with  a  quick,  impatient  toss,  it  flung  him 

in  the  air  ; 
And    then,   O  God !     those    human    eyes !  they 

gaze  upon  him  there. 
He  knows    them,  and    an    icy  chill    shoots    cold 

through  every  vein  : 
His   blood   is    flowing    fast  away ;   it    stains    the 

sandy  plain. 


It  turns  away,  it  seeks  "the  stream,  it  stems  the 
rippling  tide : 

He  sees  it  clamber  up  the  bank  upon  the  far 
ther  side. 


A    LEGEND.  321 

His  life  is  ebbing  fast  away,  and  every  heart 
throb  tells  ; 

But,  rousing  with  a  sudden  start,  he  hears  the 
chime  of  bells: 

He  sees  the  waters  open  wide ;  he  sees  a  woman 
rise : 

'Tis  she  the  lady  of  the  wood, — he  knows  those 
mocking  eyes. 

She  holds  the  faded  wreath  above,  then  lays  it 
on  his  head ; 

She  keeps  her  vows,  that  wizard  one :  the  knight 
is  stiff  and  dead. 


THE   CARELESS   GIRL. 

THERE  is  a  careless  girl  in  school 
Who  often  breaks  each  wholesome  rule : 
Her  mind  and  manners  both  are  rude  ; 
On  others'  rights  she'll  oft  intrude. 

Her  looks  bespeak  a  careless  mind ; 
Her  tastes  are  few,  yet  unrefined ; 
She  nothing  cares  for  others'  peace, 
Although  it  would  her  friends  increase. 

Her  books  are  dirty,  often  torn  ; 

Her  clothes  are  soiled  before  they're  worn ; 


THE    CARELESS    GIRL.  323 

And  one  might  seek  in  vain  to  find 
The  slightest  traces  of  a  mind. 

She  may  reform,  be  good  and  kind, 
May  cultivate  her  taste  and  mind, 
Improve  her  manners  and  her  fancy ; 
And  that  she  may,  is  the  wish  of  Nancy. 


THE    CHILD   AND    ROSE. 

A  LOVELY  child  was  roaming  free 

Among  the  garden  bowers, 
And  passed  before  a  white-rose  tree 

To  gather  of  its  flowers. 

She  twined  a  garland  sweet  and  fresh  ; 

But,  as  she  plucked  a  bud, 
A  sharp  thorn  pierced  her  tender  flesh : 

The  flower  was  stained  with  blood. 

Thus,  ever  in  the  opening  hours 
Of  youth's  bright  sunny  morn, 

We  grasp  with  eager  haste  life's  flowers, 
And  find,  too  late,  the  thorn. 
324 


TO   SMOKERS. 

THERE     once     was    a    day    ere    tobacco     was 

known, 

Or  snuff  so  extensively  used, 
When  men  were  not  found  with   cigar  in   their 

mouth, 
Or  their  noses  so  badly  abused. 

But  snuff  and  tobacco  are  now  all  the  rage; 

And  a  belle  that  was  dressed  for  a  ball 
Without  flowers  in   her  hair  would   be   rarer   to 

find 

Than  a  man  that  would  not  smoke  at  all. 

32S 


326  TO    SMOKERS. 

Then  take  my  prescription,  my  beardless   young 
friend  : 

Dash  your  pipe  and  cigar  to  the  ground ; 
Throw  away  your  tobacco,  —  'tis  not  fit  to  use, — 

And  never  a-smoking  be  found. 


THE   BRIDAL. 

BRING  bright  orange-flowers  from  the  south  land, 

And  twine  in  her  gold-shadowed  hair, 
And  gems  from  the  depths  of  the  ocean 

To  flash  on  the  white  shoulders  bare. 
Our  Lilly  was  born  for  a  lady, 

And  toil  shall  not  harden  her  hand : 
She  shall  mix  in  the  gay  halls  of  fashion 

With  the  high  and  the  proud  of  the  land. 

Bring  silk  from  the  looms  of  the  Indies, 
And  plumes  from  the  Paradise  bird : 

There  ne'er  was  a  face  like  our  Lilly's  ; 
A  voice  like  hers  ne'er  was  heard. 


328  THE    BRIDAL. 

Our  Lilly,  our  own  precious  darling, — 

And  she  is  a  rich  man's  bride, — 
She  shall  ride  in  a  soft,  gilded  carriage, 

And  nobles  shall  bow  at  her  side. 
> 
There  is  a  shade  on  her  beautiful  forehead, 

Perchance  of  a  transient  pain : 
Can  it  be  that  she  looks  on  this  splendor, 

And  sighs  for  her  childhood  again  ? 
Does  she  think  of  the  true  heart  that's  bleeding, 

She  bartered  for  power  and  gold  ? 
Does  she  dream  of  his  talents  and  beauty 

When  she  looks  at  the  rich  man  old? 

Oh,  shame  on  our  false-hearted  Lilly, 
That  she  should  have  stooped  so  low 

To  barter  the  peace  of  her  childhood 
For  jewels  and  gilded  woe ! 


THE    BRIDAL.  329 

For  the  love  she  has  spurned  and  squandered 
She  shall  shed  the  bitterest  tears, 

And  gold  and  gay  splendor  shall  mock  her 
In  the  life  of  her  coming  years. 


THE   FISHER. 

LIKE  an  airy  bubble  the  breath  has  blown, 

The  fisher's  boat  lay  on  the  water  bright ; 
The  sun  looked  down  from  his  golden  throne, 

And  the  waves   leaped  up  with  an   answering 

light : 
But  the  line  flowed  loose  from  his  idle  hand, 

And  his  eyes  were  turned  to  the  glowing  west ; 
For  his  heart  was  away  in  the  distant  land 

Where    dwelt    the    friends   that   he   loved  the 
best. 

When,  oh !  on  his  drowsy  senses  stole 
A  strain  of  music,  so  soft  and  clear, 

33° 


THE    FISHER.  33! 

That  it  stirred  the  depths  of  the  fisher's  soul 
As  he  bent^to  the  water  his  listening  ear; 

So  sweet  it  flowed,  that  he  scarce  could  tell 
From  whence   it   came,  while  a   strange   emo 
tion 

Came  soft  as  the  sound  of  the  vesper  bell 
That  trembles  at  eve  o'er  the  placid  ocean. 

Then  wilder  and  deeper  numbers  pealed, 
Sad  as  the  sea  in  its  troubled  rest ; 

And  he  listened  still  to  the  magic  notes 

With  a  strange,  wild  feeling  within  his  breast. 


WOMAN'S   RIGHTS. 

WHAT  are  the  rights  of  woman  ?     Is  her  place 
Within  the  halls  of  loud  and  fierce  debate  ? 

Must  she  with  men's  stern  energy  keep  pace, 
To  gain  a  name  among  the  truly  great  ? 

Must  she  lead  on  to  fields  of  mortal  strife, 
Or    stand    where    muskets    flash    and    cannon 
roar  ? 

Shall  she  forget  the  duties  of  her  life, 
To  steep  her  hands  in  floods  of  human  gore? 

No :  for  her  noblest  mission  is  at  home, 
And  never  need  she  seek  a  different  way, 

332 


WOMAN'S  RIGHTS.  333 

Or  in  the  path  of  stern  ambition  roam, 

While  reason's  star  sheds  its  benignant  ray. 

'Tis  hers  to  guide,  to  cherish,  and  direct 

The  wayward  steps  of  wild,  impetuous  youth ; 

'Tis  hers  to  cheer,  encourage,  and  protect 
The  first  unfolding  germs  of  hope  and  truth. 

Hers  is  a  holy  mission  ;  for  'tis  given 

To  her  to  smooth  life's  rough,  uncertain  way ; 

To  point  the  lone  earth-wanderer  up  to  heaven, 
Where  all  is  perfect  peace  and  endless  day. 


BORROWING   TROUBLE. 

SOME  people  there  are  who  find  their  chief 
Enjoyment  in  real  or  fancied  grief, 
And  they  never  seem  to  feel  relief 

Till  up  to  their  eyes  in  trouble : 
They  delight  in  calling  hope  a  cheat, 
And  pleasure  poison  because  'tis  sweet, 
And  love  a  meteor  bright  but  fleet, 

And  friendship  only  a  bubble. 

If  they  take  a  journey  to  see  a  friend, 
They  are  morally  certain  to  apprehend 
Their  lives  will  come  to  a  sudden  end 
By  some  unforeseen  disaster ; 

334 


BORROWING    TROUBLE.  335 

Or,  if  they  venture  to  party  or  ball, 
They  are  sure  the  ceiling  or  roof  will  fall, 
And  bury  the  company  one  and  all 
In  the  general  devastation. 


THE   HOUR   BEFORE   EXECUTION. 

DAYLIGHT  at  last !     I  thought  the  lagging  hours 
Of  the   long  night  would  never  wear  away ; 
But,   now  that   they  are   gone,  my   soul    shrinks 

back, 

Startled,  appalled,  and  trembles  in  itself 
At  its  own  nearness  to  eternity. 

Daylight  at  last !     Yon  solitary  star  — 
The  only  one  that  with  a  friendly  beam 
Invades  my  narrow  dungeon  —  pales  and  fades 
In  morning's  radiance ;   and  the  dim,  faint  light 
That  I  have  learned  to  watch  for,  and  to  call 
336 


THE  HOUR  BEFORE  EXECUTION.       337 

My   day,    comes    feebly   struggling   through   the 

bars ; 

And  yet  it  must  be  sunrise.     Ere  an  hour, 
From  the  dark  gallows,  lifeless  I  shall  swing, 
While  underneath  the  sea  of   human  life 
Surges  and  swells,  and  men  with  horrid  jests 
Mimic  my  agonies,  and  women  crowd 
To  feast  their  eyes   upon   them.     When   this   is 

o'er, 

When  my  brief  pangs  are  ended,  and  I  hang 
A  blackened,  lifeless  weight,  it  will  ebb  back 
This  seething,  surging  wave  of  restless  life 
To  mingle  with  the  ocean-tides  again, 
Nor  from  its  bosom  miss  the  drop  of  spray. 
Ah  !  I  could  bear,  methinks,  the  short-lived  pain 
Of  dissolution,  could  I  know  that  one 
Of  all  this  angry  crowd  that  gather  now 
To  clamor  for  my  life,  would  shed  a  tear 


338  THE    HOUR    BEFORE    EXECUTION. 

Over  my  sufferings,  or,  with  softened  heart, 
Think  of  me  when  I  am  gone ;  but  well  I  know 
No  eye  will  brighten  with  a  tear  for  me, 
And  in   the  years   to   come,  when   they  recount 
The  story  to  their  children,  I  shall  be 
Mentioned  with  loathing,  and  held  up  to  them 
As  one  who  set  at  naught  the  laws 
Of  God  and  man,  received  at  last  the  award 
Of  crime  of  murder.     Oh,  I  little  thought, 
In  childhood's  days  of   innocence  and  peace, 
To  die  a  murderer  on  the  gallows-tree ! 
God  knows  I  had  no  murder  in  my  heart : 
I  never  meant  to  kill  him.     Hark !    the  hum 
Of  voices !     Can  the  awful  hour  have  come  ? 
All  night  I  heard  the  hammer's  ringing  sound, 
And  clink  of  plane  and  chisel  as  they  smoothed 
Boards  for  the  narrow  coffin  that  will  be 
My  bed  to-night ;   or,  if  my  weary  eyes 


THE  HOUR  BEFORE  EXECUTION.       339 

Closed  for  a  moment,  'twas  to  dream  I  felt 

The  rope  about  my  neck,  and  then  I  woke 

With  great,  cold  drops  of  anguish  on  my  brow, 

A  sense  of   suffocation  in  my  throat, 

And  mortal  palsying  of  my  limbs. 

I  thank  thee,  God  of  justice,  that  this  blow 

Descends  on  me  alone  :   my  gentle  wife 

Will  never  know  the  death  her  husband  died. 

My  boy  will  never  learn  to  hang  his  head 

And  glow  with  shame  at  mention  of  his  sire ; 

For  in  my  trial  I  have  borne  a  name 

That  never  was  my  own.     Hark !    'tis  the  bell ! 

And  in  the  passage  I  can  hear  the  step 

Of  those  who  come  to  bear  me  to  the  place 

Where  I  shall  expiate  my  dreadful  crime, 

Giving  my  life  for  the  life  I  took. 

Farewell,  my  narrow  dungeon !    earth,  farewell ! 

Father  in  heaven,  hear  my  dying  prayer ! 


34O  THE    HOUR    BEFORE    EXECUTION. 

Accept,  I  pray,  my  unfeigned  penitence ! 
Go  with  me  through  the  gloomy  vale   of   death, 
And  grant,  oh,  grant  to  me  the  lowest  seat 
Within  thy  kingdom ! 


MAGDALENE. 

THE  night  is  dark  and  chill, 
And  the  winds  upon  the  hill 

Moan    like    restless,    troubled    spirits,    and    are 
never,  never  still. 

The  storm-king  rides  upon  the  blast,  and  shrieks 
along  the  plain ; 

The  mighty  sea  keeps  sobbing  with   an   almost 
human  pain  ; 

And   the   dark   and   gloomy  forest   sighs   a   sor 
rowful  .refrain. 

To-night  my  thoughts  go  back, 
O'er  a  withered,  blasted  track, 

541 


342  MAGDALENE. 

To   the   days   of   my  lost    happiness,  that    never 

can  come  back. 
Oh !    could   they   but   return   again,    the    sinless 

days  of  youth, 
I  would  cleave  unto  their  innocence  and   purity 

and  truth, 
Closer  than  unto  Naomi  clung  the  loving-hearted 

Ruth. 

Oh,  the  dreary,  dreary  rain! 
How  it  beats  against  the  pane, 

And  stands  in  dark  and  muddy  pools  along  the 
narrow  lane ! 

And   in    the   churchyard   far   away,    the    church 
yard  old  and  new, 

It   drips  with   constant   plashing    sound   upon    a 
tall  white  stone, 

And  trickles  down  the  narrow  mound  with  long 
gray  moss  o'ergrown. 


MAGDALENE.  343 

And  the  sleepers  resting  there, 
Do  they  heed  my  dark  despair? 
Can  they  know  my  sin  and  sorrow,  and  not  pity 

even  there  ? 
In    heaven,   blessed    mother,    do    you    hear   my 

heart's  deep  cry? 
Can  you   look  with  your  pure  vision   on   so  vile 

a  thing  as  I, 
Despairing,  hating,  loathing  life,  and  yet   afraid 

to  die? 

If,  from  that  sinless  sphere, 
You  can  see  my  wandering  here, 
If    still    you    love    the    erring     child,    once    so 

dear, 

Plead  with  the  pitying  Jesus   that   the   precious 
blood  he  spilt 


344  MAGDALENE. 

May  wash  from   my  dark   record    all    the    damn 
ing  stain  of  guilt, 
0 

And  admit   me   to    those   mansions   for  his    ran 
somed  children  built. 

I  may  not  hope  to  gaze 
On  the  Saviour's  glorious  face, 
Or  stand  before  the  great  white  throne,  or  tune 

my  lyre  to  praise  ; 
But,  when  the  chain  that  binds  me  to  this  weary 

life  is  riven, 
Haply    that  even   unto   me   some   blessing   may 

be  given, 
And  I  may  fill  the   lowest   place   in   the   bright 

court  of  heaven. 


WAITING   FOR   A   FRIEND   AMONG 
BEASTS   OF    PREY. 

OH  !  saw  ye  e'er  the  startled  dove 

Spread  its  white  wings  in  graceful  flight, 
Then,  circling  in  the  blue  above, 

Stoop  earthward,  and  once  more  alight  ? 
So  fair,  so  graceful,  and  so  wild 
Is  she,  the  Arab  chieftain's  child. 
Eyes  like  twin  stars  upon  a  lake, 

Yet  clear  as  some  untroubled  well, 
And  feet  so  light  they  hardly  shake 

The  fragrance  from  the  lily-bell ; 
And,  when  around  her  father's  home 

She  like  a  ray  of  sunlight  dances, 

345 


346  WAITING    AMONG    BEASTS    OF    PREY. 

Her  smiles  light  up  his  deepest  gloom ; 

He  worships  e'en  her  brightest  glances. 
It  is  the  tranquil  twilight  hour : 

The  fiery  sun  has  gone  to  rest 

In  his  cloud-chambers  of  the  west, 
And  she  is  sitting  in  her  bovver ; 
And  at  her  feet  a  dark-eyed  slave  — 

One  of  a  lovely  captive  band 
Brought  from  a  clime  beyond  the  wave  — 

Sings  lays  of  her  own  father's  land. 
"  Leave,  leave  me  now,"  the  maiden  said, 
"Bring  thy  companions  to  my  bower." 
With  bounding  step  she  leaves  her  side ; 

And  dancing  girls,  whose  fairy  feet 

Fall  light  as  dew  upon  the  flowers, 
Round  her  in  tinkling  measures  glide, 

And  shake  faint  perfume  round  the  bower ; 
But  naught  can  charm  the  listless  maid. 


WAITING    AMONG    BEASTS    OF    PREY.  347 

Her  dark  eyes  fill  with  tears  unshed, 
And  wearily  her  graceful  head 
Upon  her  downy  couch  is  laid. 
Three  moons  before,  as  gay  she  strayed 

Where  she  had  often  roved  before, 
Beneath  the  dark  acacia  shade, 

To  tell  her  nurse  orisons  o'er, 

A  lion,  fiercest  of  its  kind, 
Upon  her  chosen  lone  retreat 
Stole  warily,  with  noiseless  feet. 

And,  as  she  homeward  turned  once  more, 

She  saw  his  shadow  fall  behind; 
She  saw  him  crouch  with  glaring  eye, 
And  knew  her  time  had  come  to  die. 

Near,  nearer  yet  the  creature  draws  : 
She  cannot  breathe,  she  cannot  speak, 

She  almost  feels  his  savage  claws 
And  hissing  breath  upon  her  cheek. 


348  WAITING    AMONG    BEASTS    OF    PREY. 

She  shuts  her  eyes  in  wild  despair ; 

She  breathes  one  deep  and  heartfelt  prayer, 

"O  Allah!  save  thy  child." 

She  hears  the  sharp  twang  of  a  bow ; 

She  hears  the  dreadful  monster  leap, 
Then  knows  no  more  till  she  awakes 

As  from  a  long  and  troubled  sleep  ; 
And,  bending  over  her,  a  form 

That  she  had  often  seen  in  dreams, 
With  dark  eyes  in  whose  clear  calm  depth 

A  noble  tender  spirit  beams ; 
And  when  a  smile  broke  o'er  his  face 
'Twas  beautiful  and  strangely  bright 
As  lightning  in  a  stormy  night. 
Before  her,  at  her  very  feet, 

But  cold  and  stiff,  the  lion  lay : 
It  flashed  upon  her  like  a  dream, 
And  shudderingly  she  turns  away. 


WAITING    AMONG    BEASTS    OF    PREY.  349 

And  now  to-night  she  waits  and  prays 

For  him  whom  she  has  learned  to  love ; 
The  moonlight  o'er  the  waters  plays  ; 

The  stars  look  brightly  from  above ; 
The  beacon  burns  upon  the  tower  ; 

Her  father  in  his  castle  sleeps,     • 
And  she  is  waiting  in  her  bower. 
'Tis  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour  ; 

What  wonder  that  she  weeps. 
"Alas,  he  will  not  come  to-night," 
And  wearily  she  turns  away. 
Hark !  to  the  dipping  of  an  oar  ! 
She  sees  his  frail  boat  near  the  shore, 
And  with  a  step  as  free  and  light 
As  the  gazelle,  whose  silver  feet 

Scarce  touch  the  earth  they  tread  upon, 
Down  that  dark,  dizzy,  winding  height 

She  fearlessly  has  gone. 


PLEASURE  OF  RAILROAD  TRAVEL 
LING. 

WAITING  in  a  clingy  hovel 

On  a  cold  November  day, 
Not  one  glimmering  spark  of  fire  ; 

"  Ticket-agent  gone  away." 
Peering  through  the  smoky  windows, 

Opening  wide  the  creaking  door, 
Prospect  backward  brakes  and  briers, 

Black  and  stagnant  pool  before. 

Windows  curtained  well  with  cobwebs, 
Rafters  smoky,  bare,  and  black ; 

35° 


PLEASURE    OF    RAILROAD    TRAVELLING.        351 

Old  Boreas  whistling  rudely 

Through  each  widely  gaping  crack. 

After  two  hours  spent  in  waiting, 
You're  inclined  to  bless  your  stars 

When  you  hear  the  shrieking  whistle 
And  the  rumbling  of  the  cars. 

Muttering  with  an  inward  chuckle,  . 

"All  is  well  that  endeth  well," 
You  "  propel "  towards  the  door, 

Holding  tight  your  "  umberel." 
Lo,  "  like  streak  of  well-greased  lightning," 

Rushes  past  the  iron  steed  : 
Passengers  all  bow  profoundly, 

Save  a  man  that  "  wears  a  weed." 

Just  as  you  are  grimly  turning 

Fierce  and  desperate  from  the  door, 


352       PLEASURE    OF    RAILROAD    TRAVELLING. 

You  discover  they  are  waiting 
On  a  half  a  mile  or  more ; 

And  the  tall  conductor  mutters, 
With  an  ominously  black  brow, 

"  Come,  yer'd  better  be  a  startin' ; 
Cars  won't  wait  much  longer  nohow." 

Leap  at  venture  from  the  platform ; 

Never  stop  to  find  the  stairs  : 
What  if  yon  should  fall  or  stumble  ? 

That  is  none  of  their  affairs. 
Brakeman  tosses  in  your  luggage, 

Jams  your  bandbox  all  to  smash ; 
You  feel  sure  your  trunk  was  breaking 

When  you  heard  that  horrid  crash. 

Cars  are  filled  to  suffocation  : 
Vain  are  your  imploring  eyes ; 


PLEASURE    OF    RAILROAD    TRAVELLING.        353 

No  one  offers  to  assist  you, 

No  one  volunteers  to  rise. 
And  at  length,  worn  out,  perspiring, 

You  are  glad  to  take  a  pew 
With  a  fat  old  Irishwoman, 

And  her  pail  of  onions  too. 

The  effect  is  overwhelming ; 

Soon  the  tears  begin  to  flow : 
Woman  asks  if  'tis  her  "onyins;" 

Says  they  don't  affect  her  so. 
Let  me  beg  you  keep  your  temper 

While  you  wipe  your  streaming  eyes  ; 
Think  how  worthy  Job  was  tempted 

If  your  dander  tries  to  rise. 

Soon  you  reach  the  nearest  station  : 
Out  the  Irishwoman  goes, 


354       PLEASURE    OF    RAILROAD    TRAVELLING. 

Bearing  off  aforesaid  onions, 

Treading  on  your  tenderest  toes. 

You  may  groan  and  sigh  a  little, 
And  the  tears  may  start  anew  : 

No  one  minds  it ;  all  have  business 
Without  looking  out  for  you. 

Just  as  you  are  feeling  better, 

Though  your  eyes  are  brilliant  red, 
Dandy,  with  a  faultless  dicky 

And  a  highly  perfumed  head, 
Coolly  takes  the  vacant  corner ; 

While  you,  blushing,  shrink  away 
With  (as  if  you  didn't  know  it), 

"It  is  very  cool  to-day." 

When,  at  length  (if  Heaven  so  wills  it), 
You  shall  reach  your  destination, 


PLEASURE    OF    RAILROAD    TRAVELLING.        355 

Grumble  not  at  cold  and  hunger ; 

Thank  your  stars  for  preservation ; 
Then  a  solemn  declaration 

Put  on  record  with  your  pen, 
To  renounce  steam  locomotion 

Evermore,  Amen,  Amen ! 


ONE   HUNDRED   YEARS   AGO.1 

i. 

ONCE  more  with  thankful  hearts  we  greet 

This  glad  returning  day ; 
Once  more  within  these  walls  we  meet 

To  sing  and  praise  and  pray  ; 
To  offer  grateful  thanks  to  God 

With  hearts  that  overflow, 
And  trace  the  paths  the  fathers  trod 

A  hundred  years  ago. 

ii. 

A  wild,  unbroken  solitude, 
By  foot  of  man  untrod, 

1  Winchendon   Centennial,  1864. 
356 


ONE    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 

The  grand  primeval  forest  stood, 
And  stretched  green  arms  abroad  ; 

And  where  our  church-bells  call  to  prayer, 
And  feet  of  hundreds  go, 

The  wolf's  long  howl  disturbed  the  air 
A  hundred  years  ago. 


in. 

Our  grandsires  came  with  axe  and  plough 

They  felled  the  forest  tree ; 
Where  fruitful  fields  are  smiling  now, 

They  broke  the  stubborn  lea; 
They  laid  foundations  firm  and  broad  ; 

They  builded  sure  and  slow  : 
We  reap  rich  harvests  where  they  sowed 

A  hundred  years  ago. 


ONE   HUNDRED    YEARS   AGO. 
IV. 

They    built     them     homes ;     they    tilled     the 
soil  ; 

Their  flocks  they  watched  and  fed  ; 
With  strong,  brown  hands  inured  to  toil, 

They  won  their  daily  bread  ; 
And,  when  the  Revolution  came, 

They  left  the  axe  and  plough, 
And  battled  well  in  Freedom's  name, 

As  we  are  battling  now. 


v. 

Then  honor  to  those  men  of  old 

Who  felled  the  forest  trees, 
And  warred  with  hunger,  want,  and  cold, 

That  we  might  dwell  at  ease. 


ONE    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO.  359 

God  give  us  strength  our  work  to  do, 

And  grace  our  work  to  know, 
Like  those  brave,  simple  men  that  lived 

A  hundred  years  ago! 


OLD   AND   NEW   SCHOOLHOUSE. 

FULL   fifty   years    ago,    in    a   schoolhouse    small 
and  low, 

With  its  long,  hard,  narrow  benches  standing  in 
a  double  row ; 

With  its  fireplace  in  the  corner  where  the  great 
logs  cracked  and  blazed, 

And  shot  out    fiery  sparkles   at  which   the   chil 
dren  gazed  ; 

And  its  tall  desk  in  the,,  centre,  where  they  sat 
who  bore  the  rule, 

Our    fathers    and    our    mothers  —  Heaven  bless 
them  !  —  went  to  school. 
360 


OLD    AND    NEW    SCHOOLHOUSE.  361 

All  through    the  spring   and    summer  days   that 

glided  slow  away, 
Our   mothers   learned   to   churn   and   spin  ;    our 

fathers  turned  the  hay, 
Or  held  the  plough,  or  plied  the  hoe,  or   drove 

the  team  afield, 
Or    made    the    sturdy  forest    trees  before    their 

strokes  to  yield. 
But    when   the    winter   came   to   end   their   long 

and  busy  toil, 
When   the   biting   winds   blew  fiercely,  and   the 

white  snow  wrapped  the  soil,  — 


To   the   old   brick  schoolhouse  came  they ;   and 

still  they  love  to  tell 
That    'twas   there    they   learned    to    cipher    and 

read  and  write  and  spell. 


362  OLD    AND    NEW    SCHOOLHOUSE. 

And  there  winter  evenings,  when  the  moon  was 

full  and  bright, 
And  each  small  star  shone  and  twinkled  in    the 

dusky  brown  of  night, 
They  held  their  spelling-schools  ;  and,  when  the 

spelling  down  was  o'er, 
Came    the    homeward    walk    by    moonlight    and 

lingering  at  the  door. 


Oh,    the    jokes    and    nods    and    blushes    on    the 

morrow  when  they  met ! 
How  bright  eyes  flashed  with  mischief,  and  red 

cheeks  flushed  rosier  yet, 
When    was    heard     the     busy  whisper    circling, 

spite  of  teacher's  frown, 
How    "  Jeremiah    Tompkins    went     home    with 

Sally  Brown  ; " 


OLD    AND    NEW    SCHOOLHOUSE.  363 

Or  how   Ebenezer   Parsons   declares    he    saw   a 

light 
In    Deacon    Jones's    square  room  till    the    small 

hours  of  the  night ! 


Time  flies  away  swiftly,  and  the  works  of  man 
grow  old, 

And  at  last  the  schoolhouse  tottered,  and  walls 
scarce  stopped  the  cold  ; 

Its  benches  creaked  and  tumbled,  and  its  desk 
bore  many  a  trace 

Of  grotesque  attempts  at  sculpture  on  its  brown, 
worm-eaten  face : 

So  they  reared  another  building,  stronger,  bet 
ter  than  the  last, 

And  the  "old  brick  schoolhouse"  grew  to  be  a 
memory  of  the  past. 


364  OLD    AND    NEW    SCHOOLHOUSE. 

Meantime  our  village  throve  apace,  and  each  suc 
ceeding  year 

Larger  grew  the  troops  of  children  who  came 
to  study  there  ; 

And  so  our  third  new  schoolhouse  was  built 
upon  the  hill : 

You  may  find  some  relics  of  it,  if  you  go  there, 
standing  still. 

How  great  was  our  rejoicing !  how  large  it 
seemed  and  new ! 

But  we  kept  on  growing,  growing,  till  we've 
outgrown  that  one  too. 


We  come  to-night  with  willing  feet,  old  age  and 

eager  youth, 
To  dedicate  this  building  to   knowledge   and   to 

truth ; 


OLD    AND    NEW    SCHOOLHOUSE.  365 

To  every  eager  learner  shall  its  portals  open  free 

In  the  sacred  names  of  Justice  and  Right  and 
Liberty. 

For  those  dear  names  the  Pilgrims  left  their 
homes  across  the  sea 

To  seek  some  far-off  country  where  their  chil 
dren  might  be  free ; 

In  those  dear  names  our  boys  afar,  on  many  a 
Southern  plain, 

Bore  the  long  and  weary  marches,  and  the  hun 
ger  and  the  pain  ; 

In  those  dear  names  they  rallied  round  the 
starry  flag  they  bore ; 

In  those  dear  names  they  conquered,  and  our 
land  is  free  once  more. 

There  deigned  of  God  to  consecrate  and  bless 
with  power  divine 


366  OLD    AND    NEW    SCHOOLHOUSE. 

This  glad  and   free  thankoffering  at  Learning's 

sacred  shrine. 
Bless  the  teachers,  bless  the  scholars,  and,  long 

as  it  shall  stand, 
May   it   send   forth   men  and  women   who  shall 

love  and  bless  their  land,  — 
Men  and  women  pure  in  purpose,  large  of  heart 

and  large  of  brain, 
Who  shall  know   the   truth   from  error,  and,  so 

knowing,^  dare  maintain  ! 


MY   DREAM.1 

As  I  sat  by  the  window  the  other  night, 
Gazing  out  at  the  fading  light, 
And  hearing  the  river's  sullen  roar 
As  it  chafed  and  fretted  its  ice  bound  shore, 
And  watching  the  new  moon's  faint,  mild  beam, 
I  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  a  dream,  — 
A  dream  so  wonderful,  strange,  and  new, 
That  I  couldn't  help  wishing  it  all  were  true. 
I  thought  I  was  busy  at  work  again, 
And   the   hand   of    the   clock    had   just   reached 
ten, 

1  Spoken  at  school  exhibition  by  O.  A.  Day. 

367 


368  MY    DREAM. 

When    the    door   swung   wide    with    a    creaking 

sound ; 

And,  turning  quickly  and  sharply  round, 
I  saw  a  stranger  with  eyes  like  flame, 
And  beard  that  down  to  his  bosom  came. 

His  flowing  locks  were  white  as  snow ; 

» 
And  I    thought,  as   he   stood  'neath   the  lamp's 

bright  glow, 

That  he  only  needed  a  scythe  to  look 
Like  "  Father  Time "  in  the  picture-book. 
He  said,  "  You're  sleepy  and  tired,  I  see : 
Come !  try  your  wings,  and  go  with  me." 
"Wings!"  cried  I:  "you  are  staring  mad! 
I  haven't  any,  and  never  had." 
But  he  smiled  with  such  a  knowing  air, 
That     I     looked     at    my    shoulders    again,    and 

there, 
Sure  enough,  grew  a  beautiful  pair 


MY    DREAM.  369 

That  waved  and  fluttered  like  any  bird's. 

Now  in  dreams,  you   know,  the   most  wonderful 

change 

Never  strikes  us  as  any  thing  strange ; 
And  so,  without  wasting  more  time  in  words, 
We  rose  from  the  earth  as  light  as  air, 
And  traversed  the  upper  atmosphere. 
We  passed  over  city  and  crowded  town, 
Over  wastes  where  only  the  stars  looked   down, 
Over  houses  of  virtue,  and  dens  of  crime 
Where  the  fiery  drink  that  turns  the  brain 
Passed,  with  rude  jests  and  oaths  profane, 
And  the  dice-box  rattled,  and  cards  were  spread, 
And  men  went  in  with  a  stealthy  tread, 
And  the  door  was  shut  behind  them  fast. 
I  turned  away  with  a  shuddering  dread, 
For   I    knew    that,    when    next   that    door   they 

passed, 


37O  MY    DREAM. 

Wealth,  hope,  virtue,  and  happiness,  all 

Would  be  gone  beyond  the  power  of  recall. 

Then  over  the  boundless  deep  we  flew 

To  lands  where  the  skies  are  always  blue ; 

Where  birds  always  sing  in  the  summer  bovvers, 

And  frosts  never  come  to  blight  the  flowers  ; 

But  the  wail  of  the  poor  went  ever  up, 

And  misery  mingled  in  poverty's  cup. 

Then  I  turned  again  to  my  own  dear  land, 

Where  toil  and  plenty  go  hand  in  hand, 

And  I  tried  at  last  to  find  my  home ; 

But  the  strangest  part  is  yet  to  come. 

I  thought  I  was  wearied  out  at  length, 

And  my  wings  seemed  losing  their  airy  strength, 

And  so  we  alighted  upon  a  hill ; 

And  far  below  us  a  village  lay, 

Through  which  a  river  wound  its  way, 

That  turned  the  wheels  of  many  a  mill. 


MY    DREAM.  3/1 

Vine-wreathed  cottages,  neat  and  white, 
Rose  to  my  view  in  the  soft  moonlight ; 
And  a  neat  white  church,  with  its  taper  spire 
That    gleamed    on    my    sight    like    an    uplifted 

hand 

Pointing  up  to  a  better  land. 
"  What  a  lovely  scene ! "  I  cried.     He  smiled 
As  he  answered,  "That  is  Bartonsville." 
"That  story's  a  falsehood,"  said  I,  "that's  flat! 
You  can't  expect  me  to  swallow  that : 
Why,  I  came  from  there  an  hour  ago." 
He  answered  solemnly  and  slow, 
"  Over  the  earth  ten  years  have  passed 
Since  you  beheld  that  village  last." 
"Oh,  dear!"  I  cried:  "what  will  people  say? 
They'll  certainly  think  I  have  run  away. 
I  wonder  how  long  Moore's  machine  ran  on 
Before  they  found  out  that  I  was  gone ! " 


3/2  MY    DREAM. 

Just  then  I  heard  somebody  say, 

"  Of  all  this  world,  here's  Osmond  Day ! 

Wake  up,  wake  up,  and  go  to  bed ! 

You'll  certainly  have  a  cold  in  your  head." 

I  opened  my  eyes  with  a  sudden  start, 

And  saw  my  mother's  jolly  face 

Looking  the  picture  of  wild  amaze, 

With  eyes  wide  open,  and  lips  apart. 

So  I  took  the  candle,  and  said  "  good-night ; " 

But  my  dream  still  haunted  my  wakeful  brain, 

And  I  turned  it  over  again  and  again. 

'Twas  a  dream  so  wonderful,  strange,  and   new, 

That  I  couldn't  help  wishing  it  all  were  true ; 

And  now  you've  heard  it,  my  friends,  don't  you  ? 


INVOCATION    TO   SLEEP. 

COME  to  my  pillow,  sweet  angel  of  sleep ! 
Over  my  forehead  thy  magic  wand  sweep ; 
Close  the  pained  eyes  that  are  longing  for  rest ; 
Fold  my  tired  form  to  thy  shadowy  breast ; 
Clasp  in  thy  cool  palm  my  feverish  hand  ; 
Lead  me  away  to  thy  own  fairyland ; 
Let  me  forget  to  repine  or  to  weep: 
Come  to  my  pillow,  sweet  angel  of  sleep ! 

Come,   and   bring  with   thee   a   store   of    bright 

dreams ; 
Let    me   wander    again    by   my   own    mountain 

streams ; 

373 


374  INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP. 

Let  me  gather  spring  violets  down  in  the  dell, 
And  drink  once  again  from  the  mossy  old  well ; 
Let    me   hear  the   glad  song   of   the  robin    that 

made 

Her  nest  every  year  in  the  apple-tree's  shade  ; 
Over  my  soul  let  the  olden  peace  creep  : 
Come  to  me,  beautiful  angel  of  sleep! 

Come,  for  the  night  dew  is  closing  the  flowers 
To    sleep,    with    shut    petals    till     morn's    rosy 

hours  ; 

Birds  lightly  rock  in  their  leaf-curtained  nest  ; 
Daylight's    last    crimson    fades    out     from     the 

west ; 

And,  as  I  gaze  at  the  fathomless  sky, 
Bright  Hesper  glitters  through  tears  in  my  eye. 
Why  should  I  waken  to  sorrow,  and  weep  ? 
Come  at  my  bidding,  O  angel  of  sleep ! 


INVOCATION   TO   SLEEP.  375 

All  the  day  long  have  I  mixed  with  the  crowd, 
Noisy  and  heartless,  and  jostling  and  loud. 
"  Each  for  himself "  seemed  their  motto  to  be : 
Why  should  they  care  for  a  stranger  like  me  ? 
Now  from  the  tumult  and  strife  I  have  fled, 
Seeking  but  vainly  repose  for  my  head : 
Come,  and  my  soul  in  forgetfulness  steep, 
Come  to  me,  come  to  me,  angel  of  sleep ! 


BERTHA'S   CHRISTMAS. 

BERTHA  was  out  in  the  frosty  street, 

And  the  night  was  fierce  and  wild ; 
The  ice-work  wounded  her  small  bare  feet, 

For  she  was  a  beggar-child  ; 
The  snow  fell  faster  and  faster  still, 

As  blindly  she  wandered  on, 
Till  it  seemed  that  her  very  heart  was  chill, 

And  her  power  to  move  was  gone. 

She  sees  the  lamps  of  the  city  glow 

Like  stars  from  the  azure  cast ; 
The  sweet  bells  chime  out  o'er  the  crispy  snow, 

And  music  is  borne  on  the  blast : 
376 


BERTHA'S  CHRISTMAS.  377 

There  is  joy,  there  is  plenty,  but  net  for  her  ; 

And  the  tears  rain  down  apace, 
And  freeze  into  glittering  diamond  beads 

On  the  pallid  and  want-pinched  face. 

All  day  she  has  wandered :  the  chillness  and  snow 

Have  fallen  on  her  aching  head  ; 
But  her  weary  limbs  can  no  farther  go  : 

She  sinks  in  her  freezing  bed. 
Oh,  joy !  she  is  weary  and  faint  no  more  : 

It  is  gone,  —  that  tremor  and  pain  ; 
And  her  feet,  that  erst  were  so  cold  and  sore, 

They  are  growing  warm  again. 

Drowsily  shuts  she  her  dark -blue  eye, 

Dimmed  by  the  want  and  pain  ; 
Then  to  the  dome  of  the  midnight  sky 

Turns  she  her  gaze  again. 


378  BERTHA'S  CHRISTMAS. 

She  saw  mid  the  broken  clouds  a  star  ; 

And,  while  she  looked  and  smiled, 
It  changed  to  the  face  of  her  dead  mamma, 

And  beamed  on  the  beggar-child. 

She  comes  still  nearer,  and  now  she  stands 

By  the  happy  Bertha's  side ; 
She  raises  her  up  with  gentle  hands 

As  she  did  before  she  died  ; 
Then  steadily,  slowly,  they  upward  rise 

Above  the  cold,  pitiless  storm  : 
There  is  light  and  love  in  the  upper  skies, 

And  the  beggar-child  is  warm. 

They  found  her  there  in  the  icy  street, 

All  pallid  and  stark  and  cold  ; 
But  in  her  face  was  a  smile  so  sweet, 

That  they  paused  again  to  behold.   . 


BERTHA  S    CHRISTMAS.  3/9 

A  narrow  box  and  an  unmarked  grave 

To  the  body  frail  was  given  ; 
But  a  place  in  the  loving  Father's  arms 

Was  Bertha's  for  aye  in  heaven. 

O  ye  who  know  not  of  cold  or  storm, 

Of  hunger  or  want  or  care, 
When  ye  come  to  pass  to  the  spirit-land, 

Shall  ye  better  than  Bertha  fare  ? 
Will  He  pause  to  think  of  your  pride  or  power  ? 

Can  you  bribe  Him  with  glittering  gold? 
Will  He  list  to  your  prayers  in  that  awful  hour 

When  the  secrets  of  hearts  are  told  ? 

If  unto  His  weary  and  wandering  ones 
You  succor  and  peace  have  given, 

How  sweet  on  your  ear  will  fall  their  tones 
As  they  welcome  you  up  to  heaven  ! 


380  BERTHA'S  CHRISTMAS. 

But,  if  ye  have  slighted  their  tears  and  sighs, 
How  stern  will  the  verdict  be !  — 

"  Inasmuch  as  ye  gave  no  meat  to  these, 
Ye  have  given  it  not  to  Me." 


THE   OUTCAST. 

SHE  stood  outcast  from  human  love, 

In  solitude  and  woe ; 
Her  childhood's  peace,  that  heavenly  dove, 

Had  left  her  long  ago  ; 
The  murky  clouds  hung  thick  above, 

And  the  river  rolled  below. 

Its  waves  were  swift  and  dark  and  deep  : 

She  listened  to  their  roar  ; 
She  watched  the  current's  onward  sweep, 

Drifting  dead  weeds  ashore, 
And  wished  she  was  but  safe  asleep 

In  her  father's  house  once  more. 

38. 


382  THE   OUTCAST. 

They  are  safely  housed  from  the  pelting  storm, 

My  brothers  and  sisters  all ; 
The  very  chief  one  asleep  and  warm, 

And  Carlo  lies  in  the  hall ; 
While  the  raindrops  fall  on  my  shrinking  form, 

And  drop  from  my  tattered  shawl. 

Then  she  listened  again  to  the  tempest's  wail, 

And  looked  at  the  frowning  sky, 
And  shook  with  fear  as  the  fitful  gale 

Went  moaning  and  shrieking  by  ; 
And  her  cheeks  grew  still  more  deathly  pale, 

And  wilder  her  tear-dimmed  eye. 

She  thought  of  her  early  sinless  hours, 

Ere  sorrow  or  pain  she  knew, 
When  she  bounded  away  from  the  garden  bowers, 

When  her  bare  feet  felt  the  dew ; 


THE    OUTCAST.  383 

And   fair   and   sweet   as    her   own    bright    flow 
ers, 
She  daily  and  hourly  grew. 

She  knelt  with  her  thin  hands  raised  on  high  : 
"O  Father  in  heaven!"  she  cried, 

"Look  down  from  thy  throne  in  the  azure  sky 
For  the  sake  of  Him  who  died, 

And  forgive  my  sins  of  darkest  dye 
For  the  love  of  the  Crucified ! " 

A  pause,  a  plunge,  and  the  water  cold 
Has  closed  o'er  the  sinking  head  ; 

And  the   deep,  black   waves,  like   a  shroud,   en 
fold 
The  form  of  the  early  dead; 

And  the  waves  and  the  festering  mould 
Are  the  weary  one's  last  bed. 


384  THE    OUTCAST. 

O  pious  souls  who  her  sins  condemn, 

Who  fast  and  pray  so  much, 
Who  joy  that  in  Jesus'  diadem 

There  will  be  no  room  for  such, 
No  more  shall  your  saintly  garment's  hem 

Be  polluted  by  her  touch ! 

And  when  in  His  temple  you  are  found, 

O  chosen  worshippers ! 
Draw  closely  the  heavy  mantle  round, 

And  arrange  the  costly  furs ; 
Then  thank  your  God  with  a  joy  profound 

That  your  sin  is  not  as  hers ! 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

THROUGH  frosted  panes  the  moon's  cold  light 
Gleams  faintly  round  the  chamber  dim  ; 

The  Year  is  dying  with  the  night, 
And  you  and  I  will  watch  with  him. 

The  good  Old  Year !     We  owe  him  much  : 
He  brought  us  joy,  unknown  till  then; 

He  strewed  our  path  with  pleasures,  such 
As  life  can  never  give  again. 

And  if  he  sometimes  led  our  feet 

Through  narrow  pathways  thorn-beset, 

385 


386       THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

And  if  sometimes  Hope's  blossoms  sweet 
With  Disappointment's  tears  were  wet,  — 

If  some  of  youth's  fair  dreams  are  fled, 
Enough  are  left  to  gild  the  way ; 

For  every  tear  he  made  us  shed 
He  gave  as  many  a  happy  day. 

New  friends  he  gave  us,  who  are  clear; 

He  spared  the  old  ones  dearer  yet : 
We  cannot  choose  but  drop  a  tear, 

And  close  his  eyes  with  deep  regret. 

Into  the  future  dim  we  peer, 

And  question  with  a  doubting  heart, 

What  hast  thou  brought  for  us,  New  Year  ? 
Shall  we  with  thee  as  kindly  part  ? 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR.       387 

The  clock  peals  out  the  midnight  hour  : 
It .  is  the  Old  Year's  funeral  knell, 

And  its  next  chime  with  thrilling  power 
Will  of  a  New  Year's  advent  tell. 

Father,  to  all  thy  universe, 

Of  every  tongue  and  every  creed, 

May  this  fair  day  just  dawned  on  us 
Become  a  "glad  New  Year"  indeed! 

And  wheresoever  on  earth's  wide  plain 
A  single  suffering  soul  may  dwell, — 

To  the  poor  Ethiop  in  his  chain, 
Or  the  sad  prisoner  in  his  cell ; 

To  all  thy  creatures  bending  low 
Beneath  Oppression's  heavy  sway, 


388       THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

May  this  New  Year,  begun  in  woe, 
End  in  a  gleam  of  brighter  day !  — 

The  day  when  men  of  every  blood 
Before  Thy  glorious  throne  shall  fall, 

Owning  our  common  brotherhood, 
And  one  great  Father  of  us  all ! 


THE   DEATH    OF   KANE. 

FAR  o'er  the  ocean  comes  a  dirge 

For  one  in  manhood's  prime  laid  low, 
And  with  the  murmur  of   the  surge 

Is  blent  a  deeper  note  of  woe ; 
And  eyes  to-day  with  tears  are  dim 

That  never  saw  for  whom  they  weep, 
And  hearts  are  bowed  with  grief   for  him 

Who  sleeps  the  long  and  dreamless  sleep ! 

All  vain  love's  agonizing  care 

To  charm  away  the  pangs  of  pain  ! 

All  vain  the  balmy  southern  air 
To  bring  back  life  and  health  again ! 
»  389 


3QO  THE    DEATH    OF    KANE. 

The  dauntless  nerve,  the  iron  will, 
The  cheek  that  danger  never  paled, 

Strong  arm  and  nob]e  heart  are  still 
In  death's  dark  night  forever  veiled. 

The  eyes  that  watched  the  long,  long  night 

Beneath  the  pole-star's  icy  ray, 
And  hailed  the  first  faint  tinge  of   light, 

Precursor  of   the  longed-for  day, 
Are  closed  on  earth  forevermore ; 

And  dull  for  aye  the  ears  will  be 
That  erst  have  heard  the  sullen  roar 

And  ice-breaks  of   the  northern  sea ! 

Yet,  while  we  feel  the  chastening  rod, 
And  'neath  the  heavy  burden  lie, 

Still  let  us  thank  a  gracious  God 

That  brought  the  loved  one  home  to  die. 

9 


THE    DEATH    OF    KANE.  391 

Thank  God  !    O  bleeding  hearts  bereft, 
And  crushed  beneath  the  heavy  blow, 

Your  loved  one's  relics  were  not  left 
To  bleach  amid  eternal  snow. 

And  if   life  be  not  length  of   days, 

But  worthy  deeds  and  well-earned  fame, 
How  few  have  lived  to  earn  the  praise 

That  clusters  round  thine  honored  name ! 
The  dauntless  leader  gone  before, 

His  bright  example  left  to  bless  : 
Heaven  has  one  shining  angel  more, 

And  earth,  one  noble  son  the  less. 


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